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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157765">as is the sea marvelous</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmandalore/pseuds/mothmandalore'>mothmandalore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stingray (UK TV), Thunderbirds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:09:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmandalore/pseuds/mothmandalore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Gordon Tracy left the World Aquanaut Security Patrol. His life with International Rescue doesn't leave much room for looking back, and that's fine with him...he's never been particularly nostalgic about his time in Marineville. But when an otherwise routine rescue uncovers a long-forgotten secret on the seabed - one that threatens the lives of his family - he's left with nowhere else to turn. Finding an unexpected ally in Marina, he sets out in search of the key to save his brothers, with the girl from the ocean following him every step of the way. </p><p>His family has always joked that his one true love is the sea. </p><p>Perhaps they weren't entirely wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gordon Tracy/Marina (Stingray), Tin-Tin Kyrano/Alan Tracy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. morning's over the shore</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Stop fidgeting."</p><p>"I’m not fidgeting." Tin-Tin shifted awkwardly in the chair. "I’m just...moving."</p><p>"Then stop <em> moving."  </em>Virgil glared down, eyes darting between her ink-stained hands and the picture he’d been referencing. He frowned very solemnly, tilting his head a little to the side, narrowing his eyes.</p><p>Gordon glanced at the clock for what must have been the twentieth time in just as many minutes. Virgil had been working for a little over two hours now. Tin-Tin was all but slouching out of her seat, hands planted firmly on the table between them. </p><p>The pattern painted on them made it look like she was wearing a pair of lacy, half-finished gloves. The ink was a deep, rich red, with a little something golden to it, catching the light as Virgil moved her hand, turning it this way and that, checking the delicate lines. </p><p>She’d decided on the henna months ago, almost as soon as Alan had finished stumbling through his word-salad proposal. She’d talked about seeing the pictures of her mother’s wedding designs when she was a little girl - wonderfully intricate, elegant, swirling up her wrists and along her forearms - and she’d been mesmerized. </p><p>The actual procedure, it turned out, was not quite as enchanting as the result. </p><p>She squirmed in place, cheeks puffed up as she let out a heavy gust of breath. "It would go a little quicker if you used the stencil…"</p><p>Virgil grimaced. "The day I use a <em> stencil </em>is the day I-"</p><p>Gordon leaned back in his own chair, watching the two of them, a slight smile on his lips. With the wedding just a couple of days away, the whole villa was plunged into what he could only describe as unending chaos.</p><p>The nature of International Rescue meant it was going to be a small wedding. But even with a guest list that could fit on a chewing gum wrapper, the logistics were overwhelming. Penny and Parker were due in tomorrow. Brains had been working round the clock on a way to patch radio calls through to the base, just long enough for John to spend the day away from Thunderbird 5. A few scattered agents and contacts would be arriving the day of, leading to more traffic than Tracy Island had seen in years...or possibly ever.</p><p>And in the midst of it all, Gordon had been dubbed man of honor. A duty which he was entirely unprepared for, but had thrown himself into wholeheartedly. </p><p>"Alright." Virgil squinted down at the picture once more, then at her hands, nodding to himself. "That’s the bulk of it done. Now it’s just the arms."</p><p>"Don’t you dare." She fixed a pointed glare on him. "Stop at the wrists."</p><p>He waved his brush towards the photo. "But look at how they draw it up…"</p><p>
  <em>"Stop at the wrists."</em>
</p><p>"Yes, ma’am," he grumbled, hunching his shoulders as he settled in for the last stretch of painting. </p><p>It only took a few deft strokes of his brush...followed by some painstakingly careful touch-ups...followed by an excruciatingly long inspection, accompanied by Tin-Tin’s increasingly aggravated sighs...before he declared he was finished. </p><p>"There you go." He pushed away from the table, tapping the handle of his brush against his lips. "If you want me to fix the left wrist-"</p><p>"It’s perfect." She smiled, twisting one hand beneath the light. "Absolutely perfect. Thank you."</p><p>Gordon leaned in. "Do you feel any luckier yet?" he asked, watching as she flexed and curled her fingers. </p><p>"I don’t think that’s exactly how it works." She stood up, wincing a little, rolling her shoulders. "It’s only supposed to ward off misfortune."</p><p>"So no explosions during the wedding, probably," he offered. </p><p>"Probably." She grinned, raising her eyebrows. "Who knows. Things have been a little quiet recently." </p><p>She was right. It wasn’t unheard of for them to go a while without a proper rescue - John was fielding plenty of minor calls, from the sound of it - but after a few days, they all began to get a little too antsy, a little too uneasy. These prolonged silences always had a strange weight to them, like thick grey storm clouds gathering on the horizon. </p><p>But there were no storms today. Just crystal blue skies brushed with wisps of airy white clouds, and plenty of late spring sunlight washing over the island. Nearly perfect. </p><p>"Alright, Tin-Tin." Gordon stood, clapping his hands together. "You. Me. Poolside. Now." </p><p>"What about me?" Virgil snapped his brush case shut, frowning as he rolled his sleeves back down. </p><p>"I don’t know." He turned, looking at Tin-Tin. "Is he coming? It’s your bachelorette party." </p><p>She rolled her eyes. "It's not a party. It's just...it's a…"</p><p>"No problem," Virgil muttered, cutting her off with a feigned sigh. He picked up the case, scowling before he turned away. "Alan didn’t invite me to his party either, you know." </p><p>"Alan’s <em>party </em>is just an excuse for Scott to give him an hour-long lecture," Gordon said. "You know that." </p><p>Virgil only shook his head, turning back towards the door. "Well...you two be careful out there. Don’t do anything too wild." </p><p>"No promises." Gordon stuck out his arm, offering it to Tin-Tin. She linked her elbow with his. </p><p>Tin-Tin was, without question, one of his oldest friends. They’d been nearly inseparable since she and her father moved into the old Kansas farmhouse. His own birthday had fallen into an awkward gap between brothers - John just old enough to feel distant, Alan just young enough to bother him - so when she’d arrived, shy and reserved as she was at first, he’d all but surgically attached himself to her hip. </p><p>"Before we get there...I want you to know that I went through a <em> lot </em>of trouble for this." He kept his face very stern as he led her down to the veranda. "I had to go digging through the wine cellar by myself." </p><p>"Really?" She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "That makes me feel better. Here I was beginning to think this whole thing was a little silly."</p><p>"<em>This? </em>Silly?" He waved his hand over the abandoned patio as they stepped over the threshold. The sun was hanging low and heavy in the afternoon sky, casting golden light across the empty pool. A half-inflated beach ball floated listlessly in the gentle current, bumping against the tiled corner.</p><p>She laughed lightly, following him down the stairs, across the patio, stopping when they reached the edge of the water. He sat down, pulling a nearby cooler closer, patting the concrete at his side. </p><p>"Your choices this afternoon are a carefully-selected bottle of champagne..." he pulled the bottle free from the cooler, melting ice clattering around it, "...or drinking out of the pool."</p><p>"Hmm." She settled beside him, pulling her sandals off, plunging her legs into the water. She tilted her head, squinting a bit before nodding. "I think I’ll try the champagne."</p><p>"<em>Ah. </em>A discerning palate, I see." He popped the cork free. Bubbles fizzed up through the neck of the bottle, spilling over the sides. He poured a generous flute, handing it to her. </p><p>She raised the glass to her lips, taking a sip, letting her gaze drift over the sparkling pool. For a while, they were both silent. Gentle wind whispered through the palms. Vibrant birds sounded strange calls from the cliffs behind the house. </p><p>He’d felt a secret wash of relief when she’d asked him not to plan a real party. It was already difficult enough to juggle something like that with their daily schedules, but all the extra activity, all the noise, all the rushing and clattering and details to keep track of...just imagining it made him jumpy. </p><p><em>Something quiet, </em>she’d said, when he’d asked what she wanted to do.</p><p>He hadn’t argued. </p><p>He tried to lean into the quiet, now. To breathe it in deep and let it settle in his chest. It was rare, catching a moment where worry wasn’t gnawing at his nerves, where he wasn’t forced to choke it down and bite it back, flashing his teeth in a false smile. </p><p>A moment where he could let the smile slip, for once. His brothers always worried...fretting, checking, asking questions when he wasn’t quite right, wasn’t all there. When he was suddenly pulled back three years ago, to cold gurneys and beeping monitors and twelve-hour surgeries.</p><p>As well-intentioned as they were, their questions felt like going to the doctor, getting poked and prodded. <em> What’s wrong, what hurts, what do you need, what should we do, just tell us, just answer. </em></p><p>Instead, Tin-Tin sat silently beside him, kicking her legs in the water, watching the way it rippled. She never asked where the smile went.</p><p>Maybe she didn’t have to. </p><p>"You really think Scott’s giving a lecture?" she asked after a while, tapping the side of her glass. Tiny bubbles raced to the surface. </p><p>Gordon took a long sip from his own flute. He nodded a little. "I’d say more than one. Six, maybe. Or seven."</p><p>The thought of their little brother getting married was going to take some getting used to. The thought of <em>her </em>getting married was tricky enough to wrap his own head around. Of course, they’d all grown up at some point or another - colleges, careers, military tours that sent them scattering across the world like little grains of sand - but it never quite seemed to sink in, for him. </p><p>There were times when he couldn’t help but feel that they’d all left him behind. Like he might as well be a child again, awkward and clumsy, knees skinned, face smudged with dirt. </p><p>There were times when he felt a thousand years old. </p><p>"Two more days until you’re all stuck with me for good." She smiled a little, looking down at her fingers curled around the stem of the champagne flute. He wondered if her eyes were tracing the patterns inked on her skin. The heavy lines glittered like bronze in the sun. "If any of you need to get rid of me, you’d better do it quickly."</p><p>"I like it," Gordon said in a quiet voice. The words were nearly lost beneath the gentle lap of water against the tiled edges of the pool. "It finally makes you an official Tracy." </p><p>"I’m not changing my name." </p><p>"But you <em> could." </em></p><p>"But I’m <em> not." </em> She shook her head emphatically. "And I know enough about all of you to be counted as <em> official </em>three times over." </p><p>He grinned, then. A genuine one. He rolled his shoulders, the sun already growing uncomfortably warm as it glared down on his back. He heard Tin-Tin exhale, and watched her tip her head back, face turned up towards the bright, warm sky.</p><p>"It’s kinda funny," he said. "Everybody always figured you and Virg would end up together."</p><p>She cracked one eye open. "Really?"</p><p>Gordon nodded. "Almost everybody. Dad...Scott...John...probably Alan, for a while there…"</p><p>"Not you?"</p><p>He shrugged. "I guess I could see it sometimes. But he’s…"</p><p>"Too mature?" she offered, failing to stifle a  smile. </p><p>"Not <em> that." </em> He frowned. <em> Almost </em>that, but not quite. "He’s...well…you’re…"</p><p>He furrowed his brow, glaring down into the water, searching for words that might be floating just beneath the silvered surface, wavering and distorted. He wasn’t sure how to put it - that she was all color and motion, while Virgil was...steady. Solid. Warm, muted shades.</p><p>"He’s...Virgil," he said at last, hesitating on each word. "You’re you. You both want something different. That’s all."</p><p>She laughed, almost incredulously. "I don’t know what I want half the time."</p><p>"Well, there you go. Virgil does."</p><p>He could feel her watching him. </p><p>"What about you?" she asked, after another quiet moment passed. "What do you want?"</p><p>He didn’t have to look at her to know she’d slipped into her serious scowl - the one she usually reserved for their late-night talks, for meaningful moments. Not for bright, airy afternoons with half-empty glasses of champagne. </p><p>He didn’t answer. The seconds stretched long and loose between them.</p><p>"Not sure," he said at last. "I don’t think about it much these days."</p><p>"You do." She took another pointed sip of her drink, eyes locked on him, but she didn’t push. </p><p>She was right, of course. It was hard <em>not </em>to think about it, with Grandma and Kyrano turning the island into a veritable pile of tiered cakes and fragrant bouquets and yards of tulle.</p><p>He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It seems like it all made sense with you and Alan. You were always here, y’know? You saw everything. There wasn't anything to explain." </p><p>He glanced at her as he spoke. She watched him carefully. "I just keep wondering...how do you bring someone into a life like this? Someone new?"</p><p>"I don’t know." She ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. </p><p>He shook his head, staring back down at his own glass, at the trace of fizz along the edges when he swirled it around. "There’s just so <em> much. </em>So many secrets. I could never…"</p><p>He stopped, holding the glass still. </p><p>"I can’t even get it all to make sense myself sometimes," he finally said. "How could I expect anyone else to understand?"</p><p>She was very quiet when she spoke again. "We aren’t just talking about International Rescue, are we?" </p><p>He shook his head. </p><p>"If you want to know the truth..." she sat her flute down, and pulled her legs from the water, turning to face him fully. "I don’t think there’s a single human being alive who’d even come <em>close </em>to deserving you. But that doesn’t mean-"</p><p>The nearby intercom buzzed, tucked behind some of the carefully trimmed foliage decorating the veranda. Tin-Tin let out a heavy breath. </p><p>"And <em> that," </em>she said, pushing to her feet, "is why I said not to plan anything."</p><p>"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. He swore he could feel the remnants of the conversation sticking there like sweat. "What are you gonna do when that happens in the middle of the ceremony?"</p><p>"Oh, I have no idea." She was already halfway to the stairs. "Regret wearing heels, I’m sure."</p>
<hr/><p>"Check." </p><p>Marina glanced up from the chessboard. Fisher leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile creeping over his face. </p><p>She raised an eyebrow. </p><p>"Well, go on...<em> check." </em>He waved his hand over the pieces, gesturing for her to make her move. </p><p>It was their third game of the evening. The lounge was nearly empty, save for a few stragglers waiting for the approaching shift change. Phones glanced up from where he lay on the couch, examining the board. </p><p>"Uh-uh." He shook his head, closing his eyes, curling one arm behind his head. "She's got you again." </p><p>"What do you mean?" Fisher sat up ramrod-straight, eyes widening as he took stock of all the pieces. </p><p>She sat very still, waiting. </p><p>"What do you <em> mean?" </em>He turned to Phones, who only shrugged. </p><p>She reached for her bright red knight. </p><p><em>"No." </em>Fisher put his palms flat on the table, leaning forward. "No, no, no. I was setting up to-" </p><p>She picked it up, tapping it against his king. The piece fell over with a sad little thud. </p><p>"Think that's checkmate," Phones mumbled.</p><p>Fisher flopped back in his chair. He ran his hand over his face, sighing heavily. "This is brutal." </p><p>She gave him an apologetic smile, sweeping the pieces from the board. She could tell he'd been practicing, at least - she'd seen him playing once or twice on his own when the control tower was quiet, pouring over books, muttering to himself as he committed the strategies to memory. And he <em>had </em>done a little better tonight. </p><p>A little. </p><p>"Phones, you wanna jump in and start getting your ego bruised?" Fisher pushed away from the table. He glanced up at the clock. "I'm due upstairs in ten." </p><p>"Wasn't plannin' on it." He cleared his throat, shifting on the cushions. "Besides, you're more competition than I am." </p><p>"One day…" Fisher stood, shaking his head at her. <em> "One </em>day, you're going to lose a game. And when you do, I'm...I'm gonna…"</p><p>She blinked innocently. </p><p>"I'm gonna...be really happy about it," he muttered, trailing off lamely. </p><p>"That’s right, kid. You tell her." Phones furrowed his brow, jerking his chin towards Fisher in a sharp nod. She grinned, folding the board closed. </p><p>It had been a nice evening. Slow and simple and calm, and for the first time in months, she felt a little like her old self - sipping tea, smiling at jokes, sitting back and watching the buzz of activity throughout headquarters. </p><p>Things were almost...nearly...if she squinted hard enough, if she let the lines grow blurry and the edges grow fuzzy...<em> normal.  </em></p><p>As <em> normal </em>as they'd felt since the wedding. </p><p>Troy, as usual, was nowhere to be found. It had been that way since he and Atlanta had returned from their honeymoon. He'd duck in and out of control for briefings. He'd rush through the lounge to grab a cup of stale coffee. He'd jog to catch Marina on the way to launch stations, breathlessly asking how she was doing. </p><p>On Stingray's bridge, he was the same Troy Tempest he'd always been. Friendly, charming, all high spirits and self-assurance. It was the strange space in between missions that felt wrong. The moments when he seemed to vanish like a puff of smoke. </p><p>She'd expected it, of course. He was married now. Not exactly free to float around base like he used to. </p><p>She hadn't expected how long it would take for the sharp, burning sting to fade. </p><p>"Hey, hope you enjoy your shore leave, Marina." Fisher gave her a little wave as he stepped towards the lounge door. "Rematch in two weeks?"</p><p>She nodded eagerly. </p><p>Her two weeks started in - she glanced at the clock - five minutes. </p><p>Two weeks at home. Two weeks without Stingray or WASPs or missions or drills.</p><p>Two weeks to put herself back together, piece by confusing, mismatched piece. </p><p>Phones sat up, stretching, rolling his shoulders. He crossed the room to the communal refrigerator, rifling through it. </p><p>"I guess it’s kinda the opposite of <em>shore leave </em>for you," he called over his shoulder. "What do you call it? Ocean leave?"</p><p>She only smiled, watching him push aside old takeout containers and long-forgotten tupperware.</p><p>He glanced back at her. "You sure you don’t want a ride? I don’t think the commander would mind…"</p><p>She shook her head. It wasn’t a long trip home. And something told her she needed every part of it, this time around. The deep blue water, so dark it was nearly black. The steady, rhythmic pull of the currents. The kind of comforting emptiness that came from swimming mile after silent, steady mile, thoughts fading away one by one, leaving nothing but pure instinct in their wake.</p><p>A reminder that she was something else. Something <em> other. </em></p><p>Phones closed the refrigerator, holding up what looked like the mangled remains of birthday cake. He frowned down at it, peeling back the plastic wrap, delicately sniffing it. "You know how old this is?"</p><p>She shook her head again.</p><p>He shrugged, turning towards the counter. She looked back down at the table as he rattled through a drawer of silverware. Down at her hands, folded in front of her. </p><p>She hadn't been home since well before the wedding. She hadn’t seen her father in months. He would know everything the moment she arrived...she couldn’t exactly keep it from him. He would feel every last needling thought, every bite and scrape and tear at her still-raw skin. </p><p>On the surface, she could hide. Beneath the water, standing in the throne room, he'd see it all like it was happening right before him. </p><p>She worried her bottom lip, wondering how it might come rushing out when she saw him. At the wedding, she'd been all smiles and claps and friendly nods. She'd danced with Phones, who was surprisingly terrible, and Fisher, who was surprisingly not. She'd picked at a wedge of cake covered in sugary frosted flowers. She'd tried her best to avoid eye contact with Troy, who knew, <em> knew </em> like he could feel her thoughts just as clearly as anyone in Pacifica ever could, who drew his eyebrows together and gave her a shaky smile from across the room, and she'd smiled back, a little too bright, a little too big, trying to say <em> it's fine, it's all fine, I'm happy for you, I'm happy that you're happy, you both deserve this, everything is fine... </em></p><p>She'd stepped out on the porch to get some air. </p><p>She'd cried and cried until she was doubled over with it, struggling for breath, shoulders heaving, arms wrapped tight around her waist.</p><p>"It'll be good to get out of here for a little bit," Phones said, ripping her back to the present, to the lounge, to the fluorescent lights and the ticking clock and the squeak of the chair as he settled down across from her. "You tell your dad we say hi. Haven't gotten to see him for a while."</p><p>She nodded. She propped her chin on her hand, watching as he took a generous bite of cake, grimacing at it. </p><p>"Yep, that's gone off," he muttered. He stuck his fork through a bright blue swirl of icing, taking another tentative bite. </p><p>She frowned, pulling the plate away from him. She leaned across the table, plucking the fork out of his hand, scowling, and jabbed it towards the window, pointing at the commissary across the street. </p><p>He let out a sigh, pushing away from the table. "Guess I'll head out, then. You leavin' tonight?" </p><p>She shrugged one shoulder, a little halfheartedly. She tried to ignore the way her stomach clenched, knowing she'd soon be poking at half-healed wounds. In just a few hours, she was certain she'd be crying into her pillow, her father sitting beside her and stroking her hair like she was a little girl again.</p><p>He'd done that years ago, back when things were simple. When she was sad or frightened or confused. When the world was small enough for hair-stroking and long hugs to make the hurting stop. </p><p>She could barely remember what it felt like. </p><p>"Well, be careful. You know where to find us if you need anything." Phones put on his cap, straightening it. He tipped the brim at her, and the corner of her lips twitched in a reluctant smile. "Who knows. Maybe somebody here’ll be half-decent at chess by the time you get back."</p>
<hr/><p>"Two divers are confirmed stranded." Scott’s voice cut through the interior of Thunderbird 2. "One is still unaccounted for. Likely trapped when the structure collapsed. Their radio communication is spotty." </p><p>"Did they have any information about air supply?" Virgil glanced at the monitor. </p><p>"Three hours."</p><p>"Alright." Virgil clicked his tongue as he poured over the display. "ETA is just under half an hour. Not too bad."</p><p>"Maybe." Gordon could practically hear Scott’s frown, heavy and skeptical, through the comms. "Not having eyes on that rubble yet has me nervous."</p><p>"I don’t get it." Alan tossed one map aside, reaching for another. "There’s no land around for miles. No islands. What kind of ruins could they have been digging around in?"</p><p>"Shipwreck?" Gordon offered, leaning over to look. Alan wasn't wrong - the coordinates the underwater archeology team sent over put them in a particularly lonely stretch of the Pacific. And at 10,000 feet beneath the surface...there wouldn’t be any ruins of civilization to dig through.</p><p>Not human civilization, at least. </p><p>"Then why wouldn’t they <em> say </em>it was a shipwreck?" Alan scowled down at the map. </p><p>"I don’t know, but they’re trapped in <em> something." </em>Scott sighed. "I’m set up on their research vessel. Virgil, I think you’ll be stuck hovering. Alan, suit up, but I want you with me."</p><p>"F.A.B.," Alan muttered, barely paying attention as he scoured the map again and again, looking for some hidden clue. </p><p>Gordon fidgeted in his seat, glancing out at the wide stretch of ocean below. The water was a deep, wild blue, churning with choppy waves. There was always a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach just before a rescue - not quite butterflies, but maybe moths with dull, heavy wings, grey and brown and thick with strange fuzz. He took a slow breath, counting the seconds until their arrival.</p><p>"Fifteen minutes out," Virgil said at last, eyes still on the controls. "Ready?"</p><p>"Ready!" Gordon’s voice pitched up in a strange chirp, one that never felt quite right, but seemed to cover up any traces of nervousness that might come skittering to the surface.</p><p>He made his way back to the pod. Even in the dull light, Thunderbird 4’s hull gleamed a cheerful shade of yellow. It was a practical choice, of course - easy to spot in dark wreckage, shining through murky waters - but he liked to think it gave the little bird a bit more personality than the others. It made her feel sunny. Somehow comforting. </p><p><em>Things will be fine, </em>she seemed to say, a bright little trill over the rushing wind, the clanging pipes, the ever-shifting metal fuselage of Thunderbird 2. </p><p>The process was all muscle memory by now. Changing into his diving gear. Running last minute checks on his equipment. He worked quickly, chipping away at the final minutes before they were in position. He was fussing with the meter on one of the spare oxygen tanks when Virgil’s voice rang out over the intercom. </p><p>"How’s it looking?" </p><p>"All good," Gordon answered. "Thunderbird 4’s in place."</p><p>“Alright. Two minutes to launch.”</p><p>This was always the hardest part. The last few moments spent waiting. Wondering what he’d find down there. What he’d be able to do. Where he might fall short. </p><p>He tried to imagine the same worries clawing at his brothers. Scott with his sharp, quick thinking. Even-keeled Virgil with his unendingly steady hand. The way John chipped away at information, handling it with the precision and certainty of a computer processor. Alan’s knack for lunging straight at the throat of a situation, never once stopping to flinch. </p><p>If they worried much, they certainly never showed it. </p><p>And then...there was him. </p><p>He settled in behind the controls, skimming over the data John had fed through to the console, barely absorbing the information.</p><p>He bounced his leg, knocking his knee against the bottom of the wheel. </p><p>His mind churned over flashes of old WASP briefings. They hadn’t scouted this far south during his tenure there. If they’d found traces of habitation since then, the area would have been properly quarantined, under full World Security Patrol jurisdiction. Nothing an archeology team could just stumble across. </p><p>And certainly nothing they could fly over without a hundred pages worth of permits. </p><p>Whatever this was, it was unrestricted. Unidentified. </p><p>Something that would be <em> very </em>difficult to explain in his report later. </p><p>“Releasing pod.” Even over the comms, Virgil’s voice was firm and solid, an unwavering point on an otherwise fuzzy horizon. </p><p>Gordon nodded. To himself. To his bird. To nothing at all. “F.A.B.” </p><p>He took a deep breath as the hydraulics engaged, keeping his eyes locked on the dull green door. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This crossover exists only by the grace of thumbbird, who planted the initial seeds, and who has (very kindly and patiently) listened to me talk about it for approximately 346973458 hours. Big big big huge giant thanks to her, and equally big big big huge giant thanks to anyone who takes the time to read, comment, or leave kudos! This is a lot of fun to write so far, and I hope it's fun to read. </p><p>The fic title is shamelessly ripped straight from an E.E. Cummings poem by the same name. The chapter title is courtesy of the band Eisley ("Drink the Water").</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. part the waters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’d been in Thunderbird 2’s shower for too long now. The hot water was going to run out at any moment. He’d had it turned up to near-scalding so it made his skin sting, and it filled the little stall with so much steam it made his lungs feel heavy. </p><p>It also made his muscles relax, ever so slightly. Just enough to keep holding himself upright.</p><p>He leaned against the simple shower wall - a muted, practical shade of military green, like everything else around him - and he pressed his face against the tile, trying to draw in a deep, slow breath through the choking humidity.  </p><p>He’d been right about the ruins. Not Terranean. Not anything he’d seen before. Tucked away in the mouth of a trench, he could see why they’d gone undiscovered for so long - it would have been a one in a thousand shot for a vessel to stumble across them, even with radar. </p><p>They had been breathtaking. Coral spires bleached bone-white, piercing the dark waters. Wild strands of kelp wrapping around eroded statues. Winding walkways, long-abandoned and full of cracks, threatening to collapse at the slightest shift in currents. Whoever had made that place their home, they’d been gone for years now. The archeologists had been picking through the remnants, though there wasn’t much left to find...the relentless ocean had found its way through every crack and crevice, and anything belonging to the race that once inhabited those halls had been worn away by the endless wash of saltwater. </p><p>It hadn’t taken long for Thunderbird 4 to clear the debris blocking the entrance to the main structure. He’d been adamant about keeping Alan on standby - <em> just a cave-in, </em>he’d told Scott, hoping for one less loose end to account for - and he’d been able to free the first two members of the party without leaving the craft. </p><p>The third was where it all got messy.</p><p>He winced as a muscle in his lower back spasmed, twisting unnaturally. He’d told Scott he could handle the dive. </p><p>He was going to regret it for the next week or so. </p><p>He’d found the last diver trapped in one of the walkways. It would have been beautiful architecture once; intricately built, with natural luminescence lining the floors, and sprawling windows overlooking the ocean floor. Shattered glass glistened like shards of ice all around him. The walkway wound back towards the craggy sea caves, down into the trench, into parts of the old civilization that were swallowed by darkness. </p><p>The man had broken his leg when an unexpected current ripped through the waters, causing a section of the weakened ceiling to collapse on top of him. Gordon had squeezed his way through a too-tight gap, contorting between the debris, Scott making his concern perfectly clear the whole time. But Gordon had managed on his own - stabilizing the limb, slowly guiding the diver through the maze of crumbling columns. </p><p>There hadn’t been time to explore. He’d wished he’d had the chance to soak in every last detail of the place - to really <em>feel </em>the halls, the chambers, the strange, otherworldly magic of that place.</p><p>He'd finally gotten his first - and likely <em>only - </em>experience with the underwater world, and he’d had to rush through it, with barely enough time to stop and look around. </p><p>He sighed. He’d have to send a report to WASP HQ later. He wondered if they’d even bother to read it when they saw his name.</p><p>He wondered why it mattered to him, years later, whether or not the rest of the world learned their secrets. </p><p>The water was getting colder. He pushed away from the tile wall, turning the faucet off, the ache in his muscles finally receding to a dull throb. Tendrils of steam curled out through the room as he slipped back into his civilian clothes.</p><p>He stared down at the floor as he dressed, his mind a thousand miles away from the little shower room in the back of the ship. It had been three years since he’d left the WASPs, but thinking back on it still left him feeling rubbed raw, like he'd scratched his skin down with sandpaper. He’d never been enough for that place. He'd been eighteen, unendingly enthusiastic, bright and eager and ready to tackle whatever assignment they threw at him...and those <em>assignments, </em>for the most part, had been paperwork, peppered with scraps and crumbs that weren't assigned to the more elite members. </p><p>He’d never been able to work his way into that secret, golden circle at the center of things. To the storied Stingray crew. By the end of his service, the anger and bitterness had faded to a kind of dull annoyance - but the resentment still had him feeling like his skin was too tight. Like that part of the world was too small to hold him.</p><p>It was a strange feeling, to be happy that he'd left, and to miss something he'd never had. It was a feeling he'd never shared with anyone. The words were too hard to find. </p><p>He was reaching for his shirt when he heard the hydraulic door engage, rushing open. Alan wandered in, already talking before he'd even made eye contact. "Hey, Gordo. Do you know if anyone left-"</p><p>"Can you <em>knock?" </em>he snapped, his voice a little sharper than he'd meant for it to be. </p><p>Alan’s head jerked up, eyes widening. "Gee, what’s got you so touchy…"</p><p>Alan trailed off when Gordon turned back to the rack, ripping his undershirt down, hastily pulling it over his head. He swallowed the next rush of irritation, fighting with the left sleeve, stubbornly turned inside-out.</p><p>He tried to ignore the feel of Alan’s eyes on his back. </p><p>It was impossible to hide the scar that ran along the length of his spine. It was still as red and angry as it had ever been, though the skin was smooth now, concealing a mess of rods and bolts. An ugly reminder of things he’d rather forget. </p><p>His brothers all knew it was there. <em> Everyone </em>knew it was there. </p><p>And they all knew better than to mention it. </p><p>"Sorry," Alan muttered, glancing over at the wall, thoroughly examining it as though it had turned a particularly interesting shade of dull green. Gordon slipped into his blazer, tugging it into place, running a hand through his damp hair. He couldn't keep from scowling.</p><p>It shouldn't have bothered him this much. Not after all this time. It shouldn't have felt as sharp as it did, like the wound was fresh, like he was still stuck recovering while his brothers lived their lives. </p><p>No matter how he tried to ignore it, though, it marked him as different. Fragile. It was the reason he'd spent too many hours arguing his way into missions. Too much time struggling to prove to his father that he was <em>fine, </em> too much time reassuring Scott that he didn't <em>need </em>to take it easy. </p><p>Too much time recovering after he pushed too hard. </p><p>Alan looked embarrassed. Awkward. Gordon watched as he tried - and failed - to lean very casually against the doorway, looking around like he hadn’t seen a thing.</p><p>Gordon took a deep breath. "What did you want?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice a little softer, to swallow the bite on the edges of his words. </p><p>Alan pushed away from the doorframe. "I found something kind of strange in Thunderbird 4. Looks like one of the diving crew might have left it behind. Just...come take a look when you're ready, okay?" </p><p>He was mumbling, the way he always did when he was embarrassed or upset. His voice was low and dark. His eyebrows were drawn together in a glower. </p><p>Gordon sighed. He shouldn't have snapped. He wasn't a <em> snapper. </em>He was all jokes and smiles, brushing it all off, moving on as quickly as he could. He felt guilty whenever he slipped, dragging one of his brothers down with him. </p><p>"Sure," he said, as gently as he could manage. "I'll be up there in a minute." </p><p>Alan nodded. He opened his mouth, taking a short breath like he had something else to say...but he closed his lips in a tight, pursed line, white and bloodless.</p><p>He drummed his fingers on the doorframe before he turned, leaving the room.</p><p>Gordon let out a heavy exhale. He fumbled with the last few buttons on his blazer. </p><p><em>Not good enough for the WASPs. Not strong enough for International Rescue. </em>He'd never expected his scar - gnarled and angry, twisting its way up his back like some terrible vine - to stretch any deeper than his skin.</p><p>But it did. </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Traitress of the sea. </em>
</p><p>The title seemed to follow her no matter where she went. </p><p>The people of Pacifica - <em> her </em>people - were kind and gentle and warm. There was no venom to the words. It was a title with a kind of curiosity to it, like she was an ancient myth: the girl who left the water to live amongst the humans. </p><p>But she was flesh and blood. And each time she caught the phrase, no matter how harmless they meant for it to be, it felt like a barbed hook digging beneath her skin.  </p><p>
  <em> The girl who returned to water when the humans grew tired of her.  </em>
</p><p>She scowled, smothering the thoughts as she walked through the silent library. She’d spent the afternoon wandering the halls of the palace as her father sat with the inner council...discussing her, no doubt. Whether she was a threat. A risk. An agent sent back to spy on them, though the WASPs had proven time and time again that there was no ill will behind their actions.</p><p>
  <em> Why hadn’t she returned the moment she was free? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Why had she abandoned her people for the sake of the surface? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Why couldn’t she see that the Terraneans opposed everything Pacifica stood for? </em>
</p><p><em> Traitress, traitress, traitress. </em> The word swirled around her, its own little circling current. </p><p><em> They’re only concerned, </em> her father had told her gently that morning, patting her hand over breakfast.  He’d smiled, comforting and calm, his thoughts as collected as ever. <em> You’ve got to be patient. This is still very new to them.  </em></p><p>Her <em>patience, </em> she worried, had run out years ago. It had run out the moment she’d been chained to Titan’s side. She knew Pacifica was peaceful. It was beautiful. It was magnificent, the cultural center of the sea, a place with ancient roots running rich and deep. It was her <em>home.</em> </p><p>It felt, sometimes, like those roots wound up her legs, around her waist, creeping up towards her throat. Set on suffocating her. </p><p>She glanced around, making sure the library was still empty. She’d been...<em> loose </em>with her thoughts recently. On the surface, she could let her feelings spill and stretch and tumble freely. She’d forgotten how it felt to rein them in. She hadn't needed to in so long.</p><p>Fortunately, the room was still dark and quiet...though that was something it was never meant to be. </p><p>The library had been so impossibly <em>big </em>before the raids. A cornerstone of their kingdom. She remembered exploring the vast collection as a child, running her fingers along the spines of the books, craning her neck back until she could see the tops of shelves that seemed dizzyingly tall. She remembered grabbing volume after volume, lying on her stomach as she turned pages and looked at the pictures - drawings of underwater kingdoms she'd never seen, of surface cities she'd never imagined. She remembered losing herself in them for hours, serenaded by ladders on squeaky wheels, by the scratching quills of scholars as they worked. </p><p>Now, the library was nothing but a shadow of its former self.</p><p>She ran her hand along a row of books, looking for one title in particular, hoping it hadn't been lost in the destruction. As a little girl, she'd read it over and over again - a collection of Terranean legends. They were simple stories of heroes and monsters, but she'd been captivated by them. Captivated enough that she'd smuggled the book out, keeping it under her pillow and reading it night after night, until the scholars noticed it had gone missing. </p><p>She'd been scolded for folding the corners of pages, marking her favorites. There was the story of the musician who fought through the realm of the dead to save his beloved. The girl who was forbidden to look upon the face of the god she adored. Men who turned to stars and goddesses who rose from seafoam. </p><p>The clever princess who betrayed her kingdom for the bold, handsome hero. </p><p>She bit her lip, eyes scanning the carefully embossed golden titles. She remembered flashes of the story as clearly as if she'd read it yesterday. A half-man, half-beast that lurked in the depths of a maze. A magical thread that led the hero to safety. The princess casting aside her title, her family, the only life she had ever known, to help the man she loved defeat the growing terror beneath the ground. </p><p>She remembered that the hero did not love the princess back, and the princess's heart had broken.</p><p>When she was young, when she was foolish, she'd wondered how, wondered <em>why </em>a story could end that way. Why the princess could shatter her life and be left standing on the shore alone, holding the jagged, crumbling pieces of what she used to be.</p><p><em> It wasn't fair, </em> she'd thought, lying curled up in her bed, eyes wide as she read the page again and again. <em> It wasn’t fair at all. </em></p><p>It wasn’t. </p><p>But she was older now, and perhaps not so foolish - and she knew, a little too well, that so many stories ended with nothing but a palm full of silt. </p><p>She frowned as she skimmed the shelf after shelf. The book she’d grown up with was nowhere to be found. There were others on the same subject - some with titles she recognized a bit more easily now, thanks to her time on the surface. She smiled as she reached for a collection of Arthurian legends. Atlanta liked those. She talked about growing up with stories of knights and sorcerers and magic swords in lakes. </p><p>But Marina paused, hand hovering on the spine, as the volume beside it caught her eye. </p><p>It was very old. The cover was faded from years of use. She could barely make out the title - another volume of mythology from Ancient Greece, the Terranean society she’d fallen in love with so many years ago. </p><p>She pulled it down, quickly thumbing through it. No pictures - not a book she would have enjoyed as a little girl, she thought with a smile. But today, she carried it to one of the tables, flipping through page after old, yellowed page, until she spotted the name she was looking for. </p><p>
  <em>Theseus and the Minotaur. </em>
</p><p>The great hero. The terrible beast. And Ariadne, Princess of Crete, who’d fallen in love as soon as she’d lain eyes on the champion. </p><p>It was a short story. Simple, built from the barest of bones. She finished it quickly, most of it as familiar as the rhythm of her own pulse. </p><p><em>Most </em>of it. </p><p>In the heavy silence of the library, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, staring down at the final page. </p><p>She hadn’t known there was more to the Princess of Crete. </p><p>For years, the character had been frozen in her imagination, staring wistfully at the blue line of the horizon. Wondering, perhaps, if the hero would return. Wondering why he left. Wondering what was next. </p><p>The book she’d loved as a child hadn’t dealt with the <em>next. </em>There had been nothing written in it about the god who’d heard the princess crying on the beach. The god of too many things - wine and ecstasy and merriment and revelry - who had been enchanted by her beauty as she’d wept. </p><p>Nothing about how the princess had fallen in love with him, living happily ever after. </p><p>Marina frowned. She closed the book slowly, running her hand over the old, peeling leather cover. She stood, carrying the little volume back to the shelf, still half-lost in the story. </p><p>Of course there was a <em> next. </em> There was always a <em> next, </em>and more after that, and more after that. </p><p>She knew that well enough from her own life. She'd been so certain it would all end during the raid that ripped Pacifica apart. She remembered how the world had smelled like smoke, like ash and dust and ruin. She remembered sitting quietly in her room, flinching at every noise. She remembered staring out the windows at the darkness, fidgeting with the little teardrop pearl on her necklace, running her fingertips over the cold, smooth surface. </p><p>She remembered the gut-wrenching sound when the gilded door to her chamber had finally burst open. She’d lept to her feet, her heart pounding hard and heavy, hanging in her throat. Knowing it was over. </p><p>When Titan had approached her, she’d felt her stomach clench. He'd been quiet, terribly quiet, as he looked at her, as he kept his eyes locked with hers. As his lips twitched in something like an awful smile. </p><p>"Take her," he'd said at last, in a pinched voice that echoed horribly through a palace built for silence. </p><p>And the thin little thread that held her world together had snapped, sending it all unraveling.</p><p>But it hadn’t ended. </p><p>She slid the book back onto the shelf. She closed her eyes, leaning forward, resting her forehead against the smooth polished wood. She took a deep breath, shaking off the shreds of the memory. </p><p>That part was over. The hero had rescued her. He’d been brave and kind, with a disarmingly crooked smile, with too much heart to leave her stranded on the shore...but it was a heart that wasn’t meant for her. </p><p>And there was no god waiting in the wings.</p><p>She touched the spine of the book with her fingertips before she turned away. </p><p>It was a nice story. </p><p>It was a story too full of magic to believe. </p><hr/><p>"Seems like some kind of canister. It feels empty, though." Alan tossed the object up once, catching it, grasping it firmly. "Wonder why they bothered picking it up?"</p><p>"I don’t know, but stop playing around with it." Virgil frowned. "You don’t know what that is."</p><p>"What it <em>was," </em>Alan corrected him. "Now it's just trash."</p><p>Gordon narrowed his eyes. He wasn't exactly wrong. It was a small metal cylinder, unassuming, a little rusted from its time on the seabed. It could have come from anywhere - debris from a passing vessel, or from an old, long-forgotten wreck. </p><p>"Well, the team held onto for a reason," Virgil said. "We'll get it sent back to them as soon as we make it to the villa." </p><p>"Sure thing." Alan tossed it up once more, deftly swiping it from the air, before he turned and settled into the seat behind Virgil. Gordon sank into the chair beside him, letting out a heavy sigh. </p><p>For a while, they sat together in unusual, uneasy silence. Alan slouched. He rested his hand on his chin. He stared out the window, far more subdued than he typically was. The only sound was the monotonous hum of the engines, and the occasional trilling alert from the controls.</p><p>"Don’t tell me you’re tired," Gordon grinned, trying to chip away at the strange, icy quiet between them. Alan only shrugged, sinking a little lower into his own seat.</p><p>"Come on." Gordon jostled him with his elbow. "Are you sore about earlier? I didn’t mean to lay into you like that…"</p><p>Alan waved him off. "It’s fine. Don’t worry about it."</p><p>That's how he knew something was wrong. He offered Alan a soft smile. "You never say anything is fine."</p><p>Alan only rolled his eyes. He kept the metal cylinder in his left hand, fidgeting with it. Gordon watched as he turned it end over end. </p><p>"Don't mind him. He's just nervous." Virgil kept his seat forward, eyes locked on the controls as he spoke. "He's been in a mood all afternoon." </p><p>Alan glared. "What would I possibly have to be nervous about?" He tapped the metal canister against his knee.</p><p>Gordon leaned back in his seat, linking his hands behind his head. "I don’t know. Getting married. Your job. Your entire life, maybe?" He watched Alan from the corner of his eye. "You’re pretty young to be figuring all of this out." </p><p>"You aren’t that much older than me," Alan grumbled. </p><p>"He's not. And he's not dealing with half of what you are right now," Virgil added. </p><p>Alan sighed. He set his gaze on some unknown point in the midst of Thunderbird 2's cabin. His shoulders fell as he exhaled, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It’s just...getting called out on a mission like this right before the wedding...it’s making me think. This is really what life’s going to be like, isn’t it?"</p><p>Gordon only nodded. It wasn't as if Alan didn’t know to expect that from the beginning. None of them had the luxury of a normal life sprawling before them, easy and simple and clean. But then, none of them had to worry about sharing that life with anyone else. Alan was the first of them to tie his unusual world in a knot with someone else’s.</p><p>It was hard to imagine the shape of a knot like that. How tight it needed to be. How much slack it would offer. </p><p>Virgil glanced over his shoulder. "If you want my advice on it-"</p><p>"I don’t," Alan growled. "Trust me, I don’t need advice from someone who'd rather spend all day pining over a girl than actually talking to-"</p><p>Virgil held his hands up defensively, cutting him short. <em>"Alright</em> then. I’ll just chalk that one up to wedding nerves and let it slide this time…"</p><p>Alan tossed the cylinder at the back of Virgil’s chair. It fell to the floor, the top of it popping open. </p><p>"Hey! No throwing objects at the pilot," Virgil snapped, twisting back around. </p><p>Alan sighed, pushing out of the chair. He all but stalked towards the cockpit, bending to pick up the canister. He paused, turning it over. "Hold on a second. There’s something etched on the inside of this." He closed one eye, peering down the barrel. "Some kind of writing...it's not English, though…"</p><p>Gordon arched an eyebrow, watching him. "What’s it look like?"</p><p>Alan only stared down at it.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>He shook his head, looking a little disoriented. </p><p>"Alan?" Gordon stood up. He took a tentative step forward.</p><p>Alan closed his eyes tight, then opened them again, like he was trying to blink away spots. "It...uh…"</p><p>Virgil glanced over, a heavy frown darkening his face. "What’s the matter?"</p><p>"I just...don’t feel so great," Alan mumbled, shaking his head again like he was trying to clear a sudden fog. He felt around behind him, searching for the copilot seat. "I’m gonna sit...for a minute…"</p><p>The canister fell to the ground with a noisy clatter. Alan took one wavering step back, bracing himself against the chair. Gordon launched forward, grabbing his arm, helping him into the seat. He was shaking by the time he was stable, closing his eyes and sinking back into the chair. He looked much paler than usual. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin. </p><p>It was like something had drained the life out of him all at once. </p><p>Gordon frowned. He glanced out the window, out at the curtain of grey, even clouds below them. "Virg, how far out are we?"</p><p>"About ten minutes." His brow dipped into a heavy, concerned furrow. He locked in the controls, standing up and leaning over Alan. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. "He doesn’t seem to have a fever. What do you suppose it is? Exhaustion?” </p><p>Gordon searched Alan’s face carefully. He hadn't exactly done the bulk of the work during the rescue. He'd patched some cuts, and called the coast guard, and helped prep Thunderbird 4 for maintenance. Nothing that should have left him in bad shape. </p><p>Gordon shook his head. "I don't know. I'm gonna grab the first aid kit and check vitals." </p><p>Virgil nodded. Before he settled back into his seat, he glanced down at the floor, at the abandoned canister lying beside him. He bent to pick it up, narrowing his eyes at it, before he sat it on the nearby console. </p><p>“I’ll call in and let everyone know what's happening,” he said, turning back towards the controls. </p><p>"Good idea." Gordon pulled the kit out of the medical cabinet. "They’ll at least have a bed set up that way."</p><p>"I’m fine," Alan muttered to the ether. "Just...just be quiet for a minute."</p><p>And then he was silent. He didn’t protest at all as Gordon checked his pulse. His blood pressure. His oxygen. Unstable, plummeting, too low for comfort. Numbers that made his stomach twist with wriggling, wild nerves. </p><p>"Something’s definitely wrong." Gordon couldn’t hide the slight spike of panic in his voice. "Really wrong." </p><p> By then, Alan was practically limp in his chair, his breath uneven, his hair sticking to his forehead. His skin felt unnaturally clammy. Gordon bit the inside of his cheek as he glanced down at the instruments again, looking back over the readings. Maybe it was just some kind of flu. A strange little bug he needed to sleep off. After some rest and an IV...maybe a bowl of soup...he’d be good as new...</p><p>He paused, his frown deepening. </p><p>The intercom had never clicked on. </p><p>“Virg, did you get through to base?” Gordon packed the first aid kit away, eyes still locked on Alan. </p><p>There was no answer.</p><p>"Virgil?" Gordon turned back towards the pilot's seat. </p><p>Virgil was slumped over the controls. He looked almost as drained as Alan did - sallow and weak, taking shallow, strained breaths. </p><p>Gordon shook his shoulder. He gave him a quick pat on his face, calling his name once more.</p><p>He didn’t respond.</p><p>He didn’t even open his eyes. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so, so, so much to everyone who took the time to read the first chapter, especially anyone who left feedback/kudos! I really wasn't anticipating much of a response for a crossover fic, so I'm really excited that people seem to be on board with the general concept. I hope you all keep enjoying it, especially as the plot gets underway!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. i've been in the deep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Marineville, 2064.</strong> </em>
</p><p>Coffee was a mistake.  </p><p>Gordon knew it the second he began to chug the cup. Caffeine always made him antsy. Made him feel like creatures with a million tiny legs were crawling all over him, burrowing under his skin. And the stuff wasn’t even any good - it was old and bitter and tasted burnt, but after an overnight shift, he tossed it back like it was water, and tried to keep too much of it from touching his tongue. </p><p>He was late for the briefing. He was always late for briefings...not that he ever had much to add, or much to take away from them. But he still sheepishly slipped through the door in the middle of a break, keeping his head down, walking quickly towards his usual seat. Easy conversation flowed around him in a dull murmur as he settled in beside Griffiths, who gave him a quick nod. </p><p>"What’d I miss?" He gulped down some more of the tarlike coffee, grimacing as it burned a trail down his throat. He watched as Griffiths scanned over the morning’s notes. </p><p>"Nothing much yet." He already sounded bored out of his mind. "You’ve made it just in time for the Tempest Appreciation Hour."</p><p>"Lucky me." Gordon couldn’t tamp down his sigh as he leaned back in his chair. Updates from the Stingray crew always managed to take up the bulk of meetings, regardless of what kind of missions they’d been on. "What do you suppose he’s got this time?"</p><p>"Something golden, I’m sure." Griffiths clicked his pen, mockingly scribbling on his pad. "Captain Tempest...went to the grocery store...and found ten dollars...in his back pocket."</p><p><em> "Wow. </em> Ten!" Gordon grinned, lowering his voice as the others all settled back into their chairs and the room grew quieter. "How <em> does </em> he do it?"</p><p>Griffiths solemnly shook his head. "No one will ever know. But cue the rounds of thunderous applause."</p><p>"Come on, guys." From the seat beside Griffiths, Fisher leaned over, glowering at them. "It’s all good stuff this time. Really."</p><p>"You always say that," Gordon muttered. Fisher’s scowl deepened, but before he could reply, the last of the dull murmur died down, and the commander called them all back to attention.</p><p>"We’ve got a couple of important updates on the situation in Titanica," Troy began, squinting down at his notes. He scratched his neck, plucking at his collar, the way he always did whenever he had to speak. Even the best and brightest of WASP had their nervous tics. "Should be quick. We’ll try to get you all out of here for lunch."</p><p>"He always says that," Gordon hissed. Griffiths let out a muffled snort of laughter, quickly smothering it with a polite little cough. </p><p>Gordon couldn't say he disliked Troy as a person. <em>No one</em> really seemed to dislike him. Troy was friendly and funny and easy to talk to. He was clever. He was charismatic. No matter how deep Gordon dug, it seemed like there was barely anything disagreeable about him - which made it all the harder, sometimes, to swallow the way things ran for Gordon and his fellow WASP members.</p><p>Troy Tempest was the bright, shining center of the aquanaut universe. Everyone else was just part of his general orbit. </p><p>"As of today, we’ve identified ten different variants of chemical warfare agents in Titan’s arsenal," Troy began, his voice dropping into a much heavier tone. His crooked, easy smile slipped to a stern frown. His brow furrowed. "So far, they’ve all been synthetic. All gas-based. It’s clear that whoever manufactures these has a significant understanding of nerve agents, in particular…"</p><p>Gordon glanced around the room as he spoke. To Troy’s right, Phones looked like he hadn’t taken in a single word of the meeting. He was practically sprawled out in his chair, sinking down low enough to puddle on the floor. He didn’t bother to pipe up unless Troy asked him to clarify something. He kept his answers to a scarce scattering of words, marked with the occasional affirmative nod.</p><p>The Pacifican girl sat at Troy’s left.</p><p>Marina. She hadn’t been around long - maybe two months, at most, since Stingray had stumbled across her. Shore had all but bent over backwards to push her through the recruitment process, recognizing an asset when he saw one. Anyone with ties to the underwater world, who could breathe water like it was pure air, who could swim for miles without needing to rest, was a gem in Stingray’s already-glistering crown. </p><p>Gordon couldn’t see much of her from his seat at the far end of the table. Not that he <em>ever</em>saw much of her. For all he knew, she was a disembodied pair of clasped hands, folded carefully on the table, and a flash of unruly seafoam-green hair that fell out of place every so often. She was as much a secret as anything else connected to the underwater cities - her missions were confined to Stingray, her connections limited to one little crew. </p><p>He knew Fisher had spoken with her a few times. <em>"She’s...well, she's really nice,"</em> the lieutenant had said when they’d pressed him for details. <em>"Really...smiley."</em></p><p><em> Smiley </em>wouldn’t have been Gordon's first guess. </p><p>Or his second. </p><p>Today, the most he could say for certain was that she sat very still, listening to each of the captain's words with rapt, unwavering attention. </p><p>"Based on his tactics so far, we can’t imagine Titan plans to slow down on this front." Troy leaned back in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the table. "If anything, he’ll find more ways to sneak this stuff in on us. And if the intel coming through Pacifica is any indication, he's already wreaked havoc on plenty of underwater cities."</p><p>Griffiths let out a low, thoughtful <em>hmm. </em>Glancing over, Gordon swore he could see the gears turning deep in his skull as he pursed his lips, scribbling some chicken-scratch notes. For all his dry humor, the man was brilliant, and thorough, and deeply dedicated - much bigger than the confines of the WASP control tower.</p><p>Troy went on. "Our priority here is keeping you all up to speed as best we can. We want everyone to be on guard." And with that, Gordon could practically hear the bones in Fisher’s spine clicking into place one after the other, straightening up. He bit back a smile. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up with two of the most deadly serious members of WASP as his friends, but he couldn't find it in him to give them any grief for it. If anything, they helped keep him firmly anchored to Marineville, too...at least for the time being. </p><p>Troy let out a heavy breath. The steely, commanding exterior had cracked, and the pressure from a room full of eyes seemed to be sinking in again. He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat twice. He flipped a page in his report. "Well then...for lack of a better term, let’s dive in."</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>Present.</strong> </em>
</p><p>He’d been in quarantine for twenty hours and fifty-three minutes when Brains opened the door.</p><p>The engineer didn’t speak as he entered the little makeshift medical room in the lab. He only pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked down at the clipboard in his hands. He made a low, strange noise - good or bad, Gordon couldn’t tell. </p><p>"I think you’re breaking your own quarantine protocol," Gordon prompted, shifting awkwardly on the cot after Brains had been quiet for one moment too long. Brains looked up, blinking as if he’d only just remembered he’d entered the room at all. </p><p>"I think we can s-somewhat conclusively say you won’t d-develop symptoms," Brains said. He glanced over his shoulder towards the lab. "None of your measurements have changed for s-several hours."</p><p>"How are the others?" Gordon sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He'd spent the past several hours going stircrazy in the little cube of a room - empty beige walls, bright lights, infrequent updates. He'd tried, very fitfully, to sleep for a while, but he kept jerking awake, his heart in his throat, his palms sweaty.</p><p>Brains shook his head. Never a good sign. "Unfortunately there hasn’t been m-much of a change," he said. "I believe they’ll remain stable, for n-now, but we still don’t know much."</p><p>"Well, I feel fine." Gordon pushed off of the cot, glaring towards the door. "Better than fine. And I’m not helping anybody by being locked up in-"</p><p>Brains gave a firm nod, cutting him off. "Agreed. I really think you ought to t-take a look at the data so far."</p><p>Almost immediately upon their arrival, Brains had zeroed in on the strange, rusted canister the divers had pulled from the ruins. He’d peppered Gordon with questions about its origins, refusing to let anyone touch it - or even look at it - until it had been properly contained. His precautions, as always, were warranted. Gordon had been the only member of the group who hadn’t come in contact with the artifact, and he seemed entirely unaffected by whatever illness had struck Virgil and Alan so quickly. </p><p>While Gordon hadn’t seen his brothers for hours, he didn’t imagine they looked better than they had when he’d left them. After bringing Thunderbird 2 in for the kind of landing that Virgil would have called <em>sloppy, </em>Gordon had watched while his family transferred them to their own medical quarantines. His brothers had both seemed to be in terrible shape - pale and limp and entirely unresponsive to any stimuli. They might as well have slipped into comas. </p><p>Hours' worth of tests had led to a mountain of puzzling results. Virgil and Alan were having a reaction to what seemed to be a kind of venom, creeping into their bloodstream through their pores, spreading second by second through networks of compromised nerves. And while Brains claimed their condition had been stabilized, they certainly weren't regaining consciousness anytime soon...and for all the work that had been going on in the lab, no one seemed any closer to finding an answer. </p><p>Blessedly, Brains opened the door and led him out into the lab, where Scott and his father were talking in low, worried voices. The nearby monitor had John on the line, who sat silently, his usually peaceful face looking very grim. Tin-Tin hovered near one of the computers, squinting down at the data displayed on the screen. </p><p>"How do you feel?" Scott glanced over, furrowing his brow at Gordon. He was looking him over carefully, eyes narrowed into a skeptical glare, searching for the slightest hint of a symptom - a single bead of sweat, maybe, or a slight cough, or a twitch in the wrong muscle. </p><p>"As good as ever. Really." Gordon waved him off. Scott, as always, looked less than convinced, but he nodded, rubbing at his jaw. It was scratchy with a night’s worth of stubble. </p><p>"We've been looking over the sample Brains isolated from the artifact." Scott gestured towards the computers. "Thought it might help to get your eyes on it, too." </p><p>Gordon nodded. "What have you found out so far?" </p><p>Scott sighed, running a hand through his already-rumpled hair. He looked like he hadn't done so much as sit down for hours. "Whatever it is, it's targeting the central nervous system. And...well...that’s about where my understanding ends."</p><p>He stepped aside, letting Brains slide into the seat at the computer, pulling up one of the numerous brain scans they'd taken. He beckoned for Gordon to take a closer look. "You can see a, uh…a clear d-degradation of the cellular membranes...right h-here." He pointed to what looked like a grey, meaningless blob. Gordon squinted down at it, turning his head a bit to the side.  </p><p>"The compound is entirely s-synthetic," Brains continued, pulling up an image of the sample. "Though the...the newest measurements show its molecular structure is, uh, is r-remarkably similar to Cubozoa venom."</p><p><em> "Cubozoa?" </em>Gordon's eyebrows shot upwards as he leaned in closer to the screen. His eyes widened as he looked over the models of molecules Brains had rendered. "How similar?"</p><p>Brains drummed one persistent fingertip on the table. "V-very nearly identical, I’d say. It was clearly intentional." </p><p>"Wow." Gordon rocked back on his heels. "Someone knows what they're doing." </p><p>Everyone was silent. Gordon heard his father clearing his throat. </p><p>"Cubozoa. Box jellyfish," Gordon offered, not turning away from the screen. "Nasty guys."</p><p>He chewed on his bottom lip as Brains explained more about the strange poison - how it seemed to be a highly concentrated form of the venom, how it was able to take hold so quickly, how the device had degraded enough for the intended aerosol spread to be made obsolete. Gordon stared at the screen, half-listening, eyes tracing the curves and angles of the molecular diagram. </p><p>
  <em>Someone absolutely knew what they were doing. </em>
</p><p>"What about the writing inside the canister?" he asked suddenly, cutting Brains off mid-thought. The engineer’s lips fell in a grim frown, but he turned back towards the monitor, pulling up an image of the artifact. </p><p>"Not comparable to any l-language in any of the databases I’ve checked." He shook his head. "There’s n-not much to be gained from it, I’m afraid."</p><p>"We’ve been over it. It’s just another dead end," Scott muttered, low and quiet, his words tumbling together. "Everything is so far." </p><p>Brains nodded in slow, reluctant agreement. The room was quiet save for the dull hum of machines, the beep of monitors. The air felt thick and strange and far too heavy. </p><p>"What do we do from here?" Scott sounded far more tired than Gordon could ever remember. The bright, sharp edge in his voice had all but vanished, leaving a dull, grey thing in its wake. He ran his palm over his face. "Do we send it off to someone else?"</p><p>"Perhaps." Brains frowned. "I’m just n-not entirely sure where it should be s-sent."</p><p>Gordon stared at the image of the canister. At the little figures etched along the top edge. He’d seen similar writing years ago - a simple inscription used to denote the contents of the weapons. Just strange letters and numbers, nothing that gave away any real information. He frowned as he studied them.</p><p>They had to be Aquaphibian. </p><p>His jaw tightened. He crossed his arms, leaning back, staring at the figures like they might magically translate themselves if he stared hard enough. </p><p>And then he glanced over his shoulder. Scott and his father were deep in conversation again. Tin-Tin was staring through the observation glass, toying with a frayed thread on the sleeve of her jacket. </p><p>He leaned down a bit closer to Brains, lowering his voice so it barely carried past his lips. "Can you get a clearer shot of the writing?" he asked.</p><p>Brains arched a quizzical brow, but he nodded. "I...I can, yes, but I don't know h-how you would-" </p><p>"Just...do it and send them to me." He spoke low enough that his lips barely moved, but he swore he could feel eyes on him through the nearby monitor. </p><p>He glanced over to see John tilt his head curiously. His piercing blue gaze was unnervingly shrewd, even with thousands of miles separating them.</p><p>Gordon shook his head slowly, looking away. <em> Later, </em>he tried to tell his brother. </p><p>
  <em> Much, much later.  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Gordon stood outside Alan’s room, staring at the closed door. It seemed to stare blankly back. </p><p>Tin-Tin wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the lounge or out on the villa.</p><p>She wanted to be alone, unbothered.</p><p>He’d never been particularly good at <em>unbothering </em>people. </p><p>He didn’t blame her for sneaking away, but he was worried. She’d been unusually quiet throughout the day - instead of rattling off theories with Brains, she’d solemnly run test after test, her jaw set tight as she’d glanced over the same stubborn data, her lips pressed thin and bloodless as she’d listened to them all talk over the same circular, fruitless hypotheses. As they’d hit wall after wall.</p><p>"Tin? Are you in there?" Gordon whispered now, leaning his forehead against the door.</p><p>He didn’t know why he was whispering. Everyone was still in medical - isolated or observing. The rest of the villa was eerily quiet. No one was laughing on the balcony. No one was gathered around the piano in the lounge. No one was clattering through the kitchen, fixing dinner for them all.</p><p>It felt like an abandoned place. The tension was thick and heavy and awful, and it smothered him like a damp blanket, sticking to his skin. </p><p>"It’s open." Tin-Tin's voice was muffled when she called out from inside the room. Her words sounded thin, fragile, like she'd been crying and her throat was still raw with it. </p><p>He didn't blame her for that, either.</p><p>He cracked the door open, peering inside. The room was very dim, with the curtains drawn against the blazing orange sunset. He could barely make out her figure on the bed - curled up on her side, facing away from him. </p><p>The only sound was the creak of floorboards as he walked towards the bed. </p><p>Tin-Tin didn't move as he sat on the edge of the mattress. When it dipped with his weight, he heard a little hiss of displeasure from the far pillow. Olive was out of her cage, curled near the headboard, standing very still with her tiny jaws parted as Tin-Tin scratched her neck. The alligator kept one wary eye cracked open as he reached out, putting a hesitant hand on Tin-Tin's shoulder. </p><p>"You sure you don’t wanna be in your own room?" he asked. He looked down at her as she shook her head.</p><p>"Not yet," Tin-Tin whispered. She ran a finger along Olive’s snout, who closed her eyes, her fierce little teeth shining even in the dull light. Tin-Tin cleared her throat. She sniffed. "The dress...it’s hanging on the closet door. And I don’t want to see it."</p><p>She sounded very small.</p><p>She had never, in all the time he’d known her, sounded small. </p><p>When they’d been young - when she’d been fresh off losing her mother, and he’d known a little too much about lost mothers himself - they’d bonded over all the hurt and confusion. They’d spent countless nights curled up in bed together, laying back-to-back, talking until they were too tired to hold their eyes open.</p><p>They’d told each other what they were afraid of. What they didn’t want to say under the glow of sunlight. What had felt too childish to tell Scott, too dark to tell Alan. Little secrets that never left his old bedroom - the one with deep cobalt blue walls, and a messy pile of junk under the bed, and a tank full of hermit crabs on the desk. </p><p>Not knowing what else to do now, he curled up beside her, facing Alan's door. He was quiet as he slid closer to her. He couldn't help but think Alan would have been angry about him flattening the pillows. Wrinkling up the sheets. </p><p>He hoped it was forgivable, under the circumstances.</p><p>"I can put it away for you. Any of us can," he offered, as he moved back towards her until their spines touched, until he felt her breathing in and out. Her torso moved a little as she shook her head. </p><p>"I should do it," she said. "Just...not yet." Her voice cracked a little on the last word. The slightest fissure, as fine as a string in a spiderweb. </p><p>He wondered if he ought to roll over. Put his hand on her shoulder again. Tell her not to worry - that it would all be alright.</p><p>It would be a lie.</p><p>"He said he had a bad feeling yesterday." She sounded unusually numb as she spoke, like she was far away, watching from a distance. Each word came a little too slowly. "He said he thought something would go wrong, and..."</p><p>She stopped. She made a pitiful noise, almost a whimper, like the too-slow words had lodged in her throat and she'd choked on them.</p><p>He counted the quiet seconds. Fifteen of them. She didn't speak anymore. She didn't move an inch. </p><p>He watched the way the dim sunlight crept down the walls. The way the shadows grew to take its place. It looked like strange, molten gold. </p><p>"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked her eventually. </p><p>"No," she managed. It was more breath than voice. </p><p>He nodded once. "We don’t have to."</p><p>And she was quiet again for a long time. He listened to the clock on the wall, and his breath, and her breath, and the little rustling sounds Olive made as she wriggled into a new position against the pillow. He stared at the door. At the wall. At the heavy, stifling, unbearable nothingness. </p><p>It was all so <em>wrong.  </em></p><p>"Remember when I told Dad I wasn’t going to college?" he asked suddenly. "When I got that acceptance letter?" </p><p>"After you sat on it for a month," she corrected him. Her voice was still half-muffled by the pillow. </p><p>He didn’t know why the memory bubbled up now. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Perhaps because that was the last time they’d been in this position - the two of them whispering in the dark, Gordon trying to work up the courage to tell his father that he’d be turning down a scholarship offer from Berkley. He'd stared at the letter every day. The fancy stamped letterhead. The formal congratulations. The signature from the head of the engineering program. An aerospace concentration, of course. </p><p>
  <em> Of course.  </em>
</p><p>"He didn’t take it very well," she added quietly. </p><p>"Sure. That’s one way to put it." His face softened to a smile, even though she couldn’t see it. </p><p>He’d told her about the offer before anyone else. He’d told her how wrong it felt when he imagined going, studying something that didn't fit the way it ought to. Something that felt like rubbing against the grain.</p><p>He’d asked her what she would do. </p><p><em> Tell the truth, </em>she’d said, shrugging a little. </p><p>The <em>truth </em>was that there’d always been a strange kind of dissonance to his life. Every time he made a choice, it felt like holding a compass with a crooked arrow, with a north that pulled strong and true, but didn’t line up with the <em>north </em>everyone else saw. </p><p>He always wondered how his brothers' lives managed to fall into place so neatly. How none of their pieces were missing, or bent, or came with torn edges that wouldn't snap together. </p><p>How they took to the skies like the wind currents were their second home, while he struggled to find his footing at all.</p><p>It wasn’t <em>practical, </em> his father had said, when Gordon had stood in front of him, hands gripping the letter until the paper was creased and wrinkled. It was <em>childish, </em>turning down that kind of opportunity for submarine service.</p><p>And poor Tin-Tin had listened to Gordon talk through it again and again. Doubt and fear and resolve and certainty and doubt again, chasing each other in a circle. <em> Maybe his father was right. Maybe he was making a horrible mistake. Maybe he'd regret every second of his life from then on. Maybe he was wrong, maybe it was all wrong-  </em></p><p>Even now, he wondered if he'd made the wrong choice. </p><p>There were times when he felt like an integral part of International Rescue, a cornerstone just as much as everyone else, helping hold together the foundation. And there were times when he felt utterly, absolutely useless.</p><p>Helpless.</p><p>This was one of them. </p><p>He couldn’t help but replay those final moments on Thunderbird 2’s bridge again and again. If he’d been paying more attention, he might have told Alan to stop messing with the strange artifact. If he hadn’t been reminiscing about his failures, he might have recognized the canister and told Virgil not to touch it. If he’d been focused, concentrating, looking at what was happening around him instead of sinking into a murky swamp of regret and old hurts, none of them would be in this position at all. </p><p>But he <em>hadn’t </em>been focused. </p><p>That was the problem - always the root of it, always deep and gnarled and too hard to dig out, too thick to cut through. He’d never paid enough attention. Even in Marineville...getting his certification as an aquanaut...late nights studying, testing, training, desperately trying to prove that he was <em>enough </em>for WASP, that he had what it took, that he had what they needed…</p><p>If it weren't for him, his brothers would be fine. His family wouldn’t be torn up, waiting, worrying. He would have fixed it all before it broke. </p><p>
  <em>Maybe he could still fix it. </em>
</p><p>"Tin," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I think I know what to do." </p><p>She sat up quickly, pushing herself up on her elbows. Olive let out a strange little growl at the sudden disturbance. "What do you mean?" she asked, looking down at him. "You know what's wrong with them?"</p><p>He shook his head, and he swallowed thickly, struggling for the right words. "Not really. But I think there's a way to find out, and I can...maybe…" </p><p>He sighed, frustrated and tired and <em>confused. </em> He didn't know how to say things without <em>saying </em>them. How to juggle so many secrets, talk around them like they were bushes covered in thorns. How to keep them for a place he hadn't seen in years - a place he hadn't imagined he'd ever have to deal with again. </p><p>"I need to tell you some things," he said, still curled on his side, though he could feel her watching him closely. "Some...really strange things. But I think it's all we've got to work with right now."</p><p>He looked over his shoulder. He couldn't make out her face in the falling light. "And...I'll need your help with something."  </p><p>He saw her nod slowly in the dark. He looked back at the wall, jaw set, gaze distant. He wasn't sure, exactly, how a person was meant to spill years of highly classified military intel. There wasn't a clean, easy script for that. </p><p>There never seemed to be a script for <em>anything,</em> when it came to him. </p><p>But the facts were simple enough. Long-abandoned ruins. An empty canister at the bottom of the sea. A poison mimicking box jellyfish venom, synthesized by someone who was clearly an expert in a particularly unusual field of biological warfare. </p><p>Whatever it was, it had come out of Titanica.</p><p>And as brilliant as Brains was, Gordon knew that this time, he wasn't the one to turn to for answers. </p>
<hr/><p>By age eleven, it had become very obvious to Marina that she was not destined to be one of Pacifica’s more <em>accomplished </em>princesses.</p><p>She couldn’t sketch. Couldn’t paint. Couldn’t write lovely little poems about pale pink seaflowers. Couldn’t settle on an instrument long enough to learn it. Couldn’t translate more than three languages. </p><p>As a girl, she’d tried to be gentle and sweet and kind...though most days, she’d more closely resembled the wild, churning energy of a waterspout. She remembered sneaking away from her lessons, hiding in the reef gardens when she’d grown a little too tired of studying subterranean lineages. Once, when her tutor had spotted her, she’d tried to run, but had only managed to twist her ankle, falling spectacularly. She’d been embarrassed when her father had found her - her dress torn, her face smudged, her hair messy. But he’d smiled softly while great, silent tears poured down her full-moon cheeks, as the doctor had bandaged her up. </p><p><em> You can’t run from things just because you don’t like them, </em>he’d told her, patting her hand. </p><p>Her tutors had always said her father was too lenient with her. And perhaps they weren’t wrong. </p><p>She stared down at her dinner plate now, a little smile playing on her lips. Somewhere along the way, she’d learned to cover up the traces of the wild little girl she’d been. She could pin her tumbling hair back with strings of pearls. She could smooth the stubborn wrinkles from her dress. She could sit very still, her spine straight and her chin tipped high, through meeting after meeting. She could smile and nod and curtsy at all the right moments during important - and mind-numbingly dull - dinners.</p><p>Dinners like this one.</p><p>Tonight, she listened politely as her father and his advisor, Thames, spoke about the day’s political affairs. She tried to stay present, focused, keeping her thoughts as bland as she could manage. She took tiny bites of fish and sipped too-sour wine, letting her eyes flicker between the two of them.</p><p>It was all painfully uninteresting. Discussions of treaties and alliances. Questions about new underwater trade routes. Rumors about tariffs and tax codes from neighboring kingdoms. It was nearly impossible <em>not </em>to let her mind wander in the midst of it all. </p><p>She wasn’t sure how her father did it. He was so unflinchingly <em>steady. </em> As calm and smooth and even as a piece of seaglass. </p><p>And she was anything but. </p><p>She tapped the tines of her fork quietly against the gilded edge of her plate. She couldn’t help but wonder what was happening back on the surface. If Fisher was sitting in the control tower with the chessboard spread out on the console. If Phones was alone in the lounge, old records blasting loud enough to drown out everything but the alarms. If Troy was home...if he was at his new home...the home he’d painstakingly stitched together with Atlanta, the home that was half of both of them, the home where they were happy and comfortable and together, always together, and...</p><p><em> No. </em> She gripped the fork a bit tighter, her hand stilling. <em> No, no, no. Not him. Not tonight. </em></p><p>The conversation had grown quiet. She flinched a little, glancing down at the table, snuffing out the thoughts like the flame of a candle. </p><p>She wove together a quick apology, planning to excuse herself for the night. She wasn’t needed for this...she was only here to spend some time with her father, after all. They could sort through their business without her. She looked up, plastering a gentle smile in place, prepared to say as much, when Thames leveled his gaze on her. He tilted his head curiously, arching one thin eyebrow, before he turned to her father. </p><p><em> Has there been any more discussion of marriage? </em>he asked. </p><p>She froze, her fork hovering just above her plate. She looked up at her father.</p><p>His mind was carefully - intentionally - silent. </p><p><em> The chancellor’s son is still open to the arrangement. </em> Thames speared another bite of fish, raising it to his lips. <em> Though I wouldn’t delay much longer. I know they’d hoped to have their answer by now.  </em></p><p>Her father sat very still, save for his shoulders rising and falling with a slow, even breath.</p><p>She stared at him. His face, as always, was unreadable. </p><p>He was silent for too long. The seconds scratched by, agonizingly slow, digging at her skin. </p><p><em> I...had hoped to discuss that with Marina privately, </em> he said at last, very slowly, each word weighed carefully against a multitude of options<em>. </em> He cast a pointed look at his advisor. <em> There is still plenty of time to decide how we will proceed- </em></p><p>She put her fork down. </p><p>Her father turned to her, his brows drawing together in a worried frown. </p><p><em> Marina. </em>He reached his hand out towards her. </p><p>She pushed her chair away from the table. The legs squeaked horribly against the polished marble floor. </p><p>
  <em> This isn’t how I’d hoped to address this... </em>
</p><p>Her father’s voice was gentle and firm and warm and horrible. Like he was making sure she ate her vegetables. Like he was convincing her to finish her schoolwork. </p><p>She felt unsteady as she turned away, the room fading to a strange dull blur as she walked down the length of the great hall. </p><p>
  <em> Marina, please-  </em>
</p><p>She felt her chest tighten with every step she took. The silence in the hall, usually so familiar, was nearly oppressive. </p><p>Her father wouldn’t do this to her.</p><p>He wouldn’t.</p><p>
  <em> He wouldn’t.  </em>
</p><p><em> She still acts like a child, </em> Thames said, as she reached the doors. <em> Play at being human long enough and- </em></p><p>She pushed the doors open, ignoring the end of the sentence, ignoring her father’s protests, ignoring the worried frown a guard gave her as she rushed by. </p><p>She didn’t bother looking up as she walked. She barely bothered to think. She listened to the way her heart hammered, the way her pulse spiked and stuttered as she hurried through the winding halls of the palace, around corners and up flights of stairs until she was nearly breathless, legs aching, lungs burning. </p><p>She stopped when she reached one of the spires overlooking the kingdom’s entrance. The world around her was terribly quiet. Horribly, unshakably still. Nothing moved. Nothing <em>spoke. </em>Nothing for miles and miles could utter a single word, and she felt the silence settling in her throat like sand on a riverbed, thick enough to choke her. </p><p>She gripped the rail as tight as she could. It felt as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. </p><p>She shouldn’t have been surprised. She <em>shouldn’t. </em>She was twenty-one now. If things had been normal - if her life had followed the clean, pleasant little course that had always been plotted for it - she would have been married years ago. </p><p><em> Of course </em>it would come up. She wasn’t foolish enough to imagine she could avoid it. </p><p>She clenched her hand around the rail until her nails cut into her palm, leaving little marks like crescent moons in her skin.</p><p>She only thought he might give her more time. </p><p>After the raid. </p><p>After Titan. </p><p>After all of it. </p><p>But she had known, somewhere deep inside, that it was inevitable. Her father’s marriage had been arranged, just as it had for his parents, and their parents before that. Why...<em> why </em>she thought hers would be any different…</p><p>She drew in a deep, stinging breath. She felt tears, hot and urgent, prickling at the corners of her eyes. She raised a shaking hand, desperately swiping at them. </p><p>She’d thought she’d broken the last fragile shard of herself when she’d cried on the balcony back in Marineville, while Troy Tempest stood in front of the whole world and told Atlanta Shore that he loved her more than he could ever imagine, while light jazz and her bright laughter wafted around her in the cool night air. </p><p>But there was always more to break. </p><p>There was always more to lose. </p><p>No matter how many times she escaped, there was always another length of chain to hold her in place the moment she tried to move again. </p><p>Staring out into the dark, still waters, she saw her life like it was all trapped beneath the surface of a bubble, thin and glistening, ready to pop with the slightest change in pressure.</p><p>One day, she would leave WASP.</p><p>One day, she would be expected to marry the chancellor’s son. If not this one, then another one. If not this time, then next time. </p><p>She would have his children and raise them to be royalty, and she would sit on her father’s throne. She would be a graceful, gracious diplomat. She would have careful, measured thoughts, never too loud, never too fierce, no sign of a dreaded temper, no hint of anything boiling beneath her perfect, serene surface. Her control would never slip, not by a fraction of an inch. </p><p>She would smile and nod and sit very still. </p><p>She would brush her hair and pin it back with pearls, day after day.</p><p>She wished she could run. She wished she could run very far, and very fast, and swim out into the darkest parts of the ocean, the water was so black that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, where the world was so still and empty and cold that she dissolved into nothingness, where she could pretend she never came home, where it didn't matter that this place felt further from <em>home </em>than it ever had...where there was nothing that <em>mattered</em> but the steady drag of deep currents and distant, mournful whalesong. </p><p>She didn’t know how it felt to scream. But she wished that she could.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So I'm taking some...uh...liberties with the general Stingray timeline here. But that's fine, right? What is "canon" but a very loose and easily disregarded suggestion? </p><p>As usual, thank you to everyone who takes the time to read!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. over wave and tide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is ridiculous,” Tin-Tin hissed, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. It was difficult in the cavernous hangar - even her whisper seemed to be amplified a thousand times over, echoing off the walls as if she were shouting every word. “If you trip the alarm…”</p><p>“That’s why you’re here.” Gordon tossed his bag into the cargo hold of the little plane. Even in the dim shadows, she could see his jaw set in a firm, tight line - a sign that he was deep in thought. </p><p>Deep in anxious, swirling, gnawing thought.</p><p>She’d been that way herself all through the evening. She’d picked halfheartedly at the leftover roast they’d had for dinner, choking down a few bites when Grandma Tracy insisted that she eat <em> something. </em>She’d watched Gordon lean against the counter, tearing off pieces of a cold dinner roll and popping them into his mouth, his eyes fixed on some distant point on the kitchen floor. </p><p>She’d relived their conversation again and again. Gordon’s low whisper, nearly lost even in the confines of Alan’s silent room, as he told her about his time in WASP.</p><p><em> Everything </em> about it. </p><p>As she fiddled with the control panel against the hangar wall, she wondered if she wasn’t dreaming. She <em> had </em> to be, she thought, as she pulled up security checks, punching in override after override. As long as she’d known Gordon Tracy, she’d never doubted a word he said...but she’d never imagined he’d tell her anything like he had that afternoon.</p><p>Races of people living their lives underwater. Mermaids who weren’t quite mermaids. Biological weapons crafted to wage an unseen war on the seabed. A war that WASP had been heavily involved in for years, and one that had found its way - however unintentionally - to the shores of Tracy Island.</p><p>She bit her lip, focusing on the display before her. Maybe the toxin <em> had </em>affected him. Maybe what he’d been exposed to wasn’t as strongly concentrated, so he was upright, breathing, perfectly functional - but delusional. Maybe he’d lost his mind. </p><p><em> Maybe you’ve lost yours, </em>she told herself bitterly, as she glanced over her shoulder. He was fidgeting with the zipper on his flight suit, glancing around the darkened hangar, like he expected someone to jump out from behind one of the machines at any moment. </p><p>And she was right there beside him, helping him. She wasn't sure what that said about <em>her. </em></p><p>“You’ll have about ten minutes when I get the doors open,” she said, pursing her lips in a worried frown. “Is that enough?”</p><p>“It’s gotta be.” </p><p>She let out a breath, slow and shaky, her shoulders falling with it. His plan was...well, it was <em> bad. </em></p><p>It was undeniably bad. </p><p>It was nearly impossible to get a craft out of the hangar undetected. Harder still to take off and leave the island. But that’s why he’d roped her into it all - she could handle the equipment inside, and by the time additional security protocols kicked in, he’d be well on his way to Marineville...while she’d be able to clean up whatever mess he left behind. </p><p>“You’re sure you don’t want to tell Scott?” She knew it was useless to ask, but she had to try one more time. Gordon was already shaking his head. </p><p>“You know he wouldn’t let me go without him. And that would just...get complicated.”</p><p>She nodded, glancing back at the console. “Then I’m ready when you are.”</p><p>“Almost. Give me a second.”</p><p>She waited, looking down at one of the red lights, watching it blink steadily. Her eyes were tired. Her <em> everything </em>was tired. She’d sat with Alan all evening, waiting until the villa settled into uneasy silence for the night. Apart from Scott bringing her a cup of tea, the others had left her alone while she’d quietly stared down at the bed, at Alan, feeling each second tick by like it was a briar scratching against her skin.</p><p>He’d looked so <em> wrong. </em>Pale and nearly lifeless, chest barely rising and falling in time with the rhythm of the monitors. Nothing but IVs and wires holding him together, keeping his sluggish blood flowing and his shallow breath pumping. </p><p><em>It wasn't him,</em> she'd thought, watching his too-still face, chewing her lip until she tasted iron. <em>It wasn't.</em> He was meant to be fierce and fiery, nearly too much to handle. Snippy comebacks and sullen glares and self-assured smiles. Instead, he looked empty and drained, lying there in the lab, dwarfed by a mountain of medical equipment. </p><p>“Tin...you’re sure you’re going to be okay?” Gordon’s voice shook her out of her thoughts. </p><p>She glared. “I’m <em> fine. </em>You’re stalling.”</p><p>“I’m not <em> stalling </em>.” He shifted his weight, glancing at the hangar exit and the dark, quiet world outside. “I’m just...worried.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” she muttered. “You’ll be fine. I’ll keep anyone from-“</p><p>“I’m worried about <em> you,” </em>he pressed, brows knitting together. “You’re sure you're ready to deal with father when he finds out what happened?”</p><p><em> Ready </em> wasn’t exactly the word she would have picked. <em>Resigned, </em>maybe. She expected the wrath of Jeff Tracy to be monumental when he found out his son had left on an unauthorized trip in the dead of night - and in doing so, had left International Rescue effectively crippled, save for her, Scott, and John's distant voice.</p><p>Even if it wasn’t quite wrath, she was certain it wouldn’t be anything pleasant. </p><p>She glanced down at her hands on the console. The henna caught the low light of the hangar, reflected with a burnished glow. <em>For luck. </em>That's what her father had said. That's what she'd told herself. She clenched her hand into a fist, and the carefully-painted lines seemed to ripple against her skin like a little copper river. </p><p>“I’m not worried about it.” She shook her head, swallowing a sudden, heavy lump in her throat. “Not if you come back with something that can help them.” She turned to look at Gordon as she spoke. She’d trusted him since she the moment first met him, since she was little and frightened and felt lost in a strange house with strange people. There’d always been some unspoken understanding between them. A thing that didn’t need words. </p><p>She felt it now, as he nodded slowly, turning towards the plane. </p><p>“Alright.” He took a slow, bracing breath, shaking out his arms a little. “I’m ready.”</p><p>“You’d better come back, period,” she whispered, before flipping the final switch on the security override. </p><p>The hangar whirred to life around them, and he nodded. </p><hr/><p>When Marina was young, her father would kiss her on the forehead every night. </p><p>He started after her mother had died. She'd been very small, curled up in her bed, lost in a sea of shining blankets and pillows. Her eyes had been swollen red from crying. She couldn’t make herself settle down enough to sleep until she’d wrung herself dry. </p><p>He’d shushed her. He’d talked to her. He’d leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead. </p><p>She didn’t remember him crying. Not once. He’d been sad, but in a way that tinted his thoughts grey. Distantly sad, like peering through thick fog over water. If he'd cried, it had been later - alone, in his own dark, empty room, where no one could see him, where no one could comfort him. </p><p>If he'd shed any tears at all. </p><p>She couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, just how much it took to crack him. </p><p>Now sat on the edge of her bed, just like he used to. But the bed wasn’t so large now, and the blankets didn’t swallow her up, even if she wished they would. </p><p>It wasn’t so comforting now, either. The room had hardly changed - all soft, dull golds and creams, with gauzy curtains, and an elegant vanity, and flickering lanterns casting gentle shadows on the wall. Ornate and beautiful and utterly untouched. Nothing so much as an inch out of place.</p><p>Exactly like everything in the palace was meant to be.</p><p>She nearly smiled as she thought of her apartment, and what he'd think if he saw it, small and sunny and bright as it was. Stray trails of paint that had dried mid-drip down the walls, not smoothed down as carefully as it ought to have been. Oink curled up at the foot of the bed, leaving the sheets rumpled. Books on the shelves, all out of order with dog-eared pages and well-cracked spines. The windows thrown open to the sounds of waves and seagulls and cars and voices, constant voices. </p><p>She already missed it. The noise. The color. The clutter. The<em> movement. </em>She'd thought the stillness here would be a retreat - a chance to think, to breathe slowly and gather herself. </p><p>She'd been horribly wrong. </p><p>She closed her eyes, curling into herself. </p><p><em> I am sorry, </em>her father said. He wasn’t lying. He never lied - it wasn’t part of him.</p><p>He was sorry that she’d found out about the arrangement so abruptly. Sorry that it hit her like a battering ram, when he'd meant to ease her towards it gently, carefully, like she was a skittish little animal.</p><p><em> When were you planning to tell me? </em>She stared out the window, at the lights of distant buildings flickering through the water. </p><p><em> Before you left us again. </em> He tentatively took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. <em>We would have planned accordingly, of course. We still will. Y</em> <em> ou'll be allowed to finish your duties on the surface while preparations are- </em></p><p><em> They aren’t something I can just finish. </em> She pulled her hand away. She sat up, turning to face him. She shook her head. <em> It’s my job. It’s...my life now. </em></p><p><em> I understand how you feel. </em> He smiled. It was a warm, sad smile. One she'd seen too many times. A smile with a <em>but </em>hanging heavy from the end. <em> Marina...it isn’t your life. You have a duty to this place. To your people.   </em></p><p>She watched his face for a moment. It was weathered, wrinkled, but as calm as the still, silvery surface of a mirror.</p><p><em> He is very kind, </em> her father said. <em> Respectful. Gentle. </em></p><p>It took her a moment to realize he was talking about the chancellor’s son. She barely even knew his name. </p><p><em> And he is patient, </em> he went on. <em>He </em> <em> understands that your circumstances are...unusual… </em></p><p><em> Unusual. </em> She wished she could laugh. She felt the urge, bitter and prickling, in her chest. <em> My circumstances are unusual.  </em></p><p>Her father frowned, looking out towards the dark waters beyond the window. For the briefest moment, his thoughts were sharp and strange, tumbling without restraint. Flashes of her, young and wild and reckless. Of her mother, just as errant. Of worry, hesitation, reluctance to clip wings that needed to be clipped for the greater good. </p><p>He understood her. And he didn’t. And it always left them both horribly, gratingly frustrated. </p><p>It was nothing a kiss on the forehead could fix. </p><p><em> What ties you to that place, if not the aquanaut? What keeps you there without him? </em>he finally asked, with a kind of reluctance. When she flinched at the words, he brushed her hair away from her cheek. She knew he could feel every bit of the storm that roiled beneath her bones, all of the sorrow and the anger and the things in between. </p><p>She couldn’t stop them from welling up.</p><p>She <em> knew </em>. She wasn’t stupid. She’d known from the beginning, perhaps, that she didn’t belong with Troy Tempest. The stars, the moon, the tides, whatever drew the pattern of her life...they’d made that perfectly clear. </p><p>Her people felt connection more strongly than humans. Mating, marrying, forging that type of bond wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Because it <em> lasted </em> for them. It burned stronger, with even the lightest touches settling deep into their skin like a brand, heavy with the weight of a thousand thoughts and feelings. She was built for love and lust and everything in between. It was in her blood. It was part of their myths - born from beings who were designed to enchant, to seduce. She’d felt the pull of it before, a foreign intuition tugging her towards something she didn’t quite understand. </p><p>She had imagined Troy kissing her, of course. But when she did, it was a misty, blurry thing in her mind, strange shapes she didn’t recognize, strange feelings she couldn’t name. Soft lips and hands on her waist. </p><p>Beyond that...the thought of his hands elsewhere, his mouth elsewhere...she lost the thread of things. She could imagine <em> someone. </em>Faceless, nameless, kissing her neck, easing the shoulder of her dress down, lips following the trail of the fabric. Fingers gathering her skirt, working it up inch by agonizing inch, tracing the curve of her knee, the soft skin of her thigh. Hands tangled in her hair. Her name in their mouth, only a whisper, warm breath fanning against her collarbone. </p><p><em> Someone. </em> But not him. Troy’s face never quite fit. He was kind and gentle and good, so high on the pedestal she’d built that she was left craning her neck back to catch a glimpse of him. And things on pedestals weren’t meant for touching. That was an important rule, one that mustn’t be broken in a kingdom dedicated to keeping all of culture properly preserved. </p><p>Whenever he did touch her, it was always perfectly friendly. A quick squeeze of her shoulder, or a pat on her back. Once - <em> once </em> - on Stingray’s bridge, both of them weary, breathing heavy after one of their seemingly-countless narrow escapes, she had slumped against the wall, and he had reached out, brushing damp hair out of her face. </p><p>“You want to go clean up first?” he’d asked, smiling that soft, crooked smile. She had felt something in her chest flutter. She’d felt her heart in her throat. </p><p>But she didn’t burn. </p><p>She wanted to burn. She wanted to feel things she’d never felt. She wanted her instincts to sink their strange, curved claws into her skin and take her over inch by inch, urging her towards something new, a place where she’d lose herself, unbecome, transform. </p><p>Instead, everything she felt for him seemed pure as a polished shard of crystal catching golden light. </p><p>Her father watched her quietly. He touched her shoulder. She felt the first tentative pull of his thoughts, careful and restrained - a soft-edged apology, maybe, for what had never happened on the surface, for the hope she'd buried, for what it meant she had to do now. For her <em>duty </em>to a place that was only half a home. And while a kiss on the forehead couldn’t undo the damage, it might <em> help... </em> and she might be able to pretend she was young again...and she might feel, for just a moment, like things were simple, like every choice she made wasn’t a mistake, like someone was trying, <em>trying</em> to understand...</p><p><em> I’ll leave you alone, </em>he said, his hand falling away. </p><p>She looked away. </p><p>She sat up a bit straighter. </p><p>She locked her gaze back on the dim lights, and the dark water. and the world outside her window, and she nodded, once, very firmly. Just the way her father would have. </p><hr/><p>Marineville had always seemed frozen in time. </p><p>It had been years since Gordon set foot in the place, but he’d swear up and down that it hadn’t changed a bit. He remembered the exact angle of the sun in the afternoon, shining bright off the sides of pastel buildings. He remembered the way the sea breeze smelled - not clean and pure like it was at home, but still comforting, heavy with the spray of salt, with thick algae gathered beneath old wooden piers. The warm air carried the same noises from the bustling base; machinery hummed, and people laughed and shouted, and every so often, a warbling announcement from the tower cut through the chaos.</p><p>It was nice. It was nostalgic. </p><p>It was all tucked, very safely, on the other side of the gate. </p><p>He wasn't sure how long he'd been arguing with the guard. Long enough for his legs to start aching. For years - <em>years - </em>the gate security had been a pitiful joke around base. They'd let anyone and everyone through without a second thought. And now, when all Gordon needed was to get inside, when he needed to find somebody, anybody, <em>one person</em>who'd know his name...he was stuck bickering with a man who might as well have been a brick wall.</p><p>A brick wall demanding security clearance, or visitor paperwork, or a certified escort, or anything else Gordon was lacking. </p><p>“Just...just try calling the tower,” Gordon urged. “Please. If you could just tell them who I am, or get me in touch with-“</p><p>“No luck, pal,” the guard snapped. He looked over Gordon’s shoulder, at the car idling behind him. “Now step aside. You’re blocking traffic.”</p><p>Gordon sighed, hopping up onto the curb. He winced a little at his stiff muscles, rolling his shoulders, cracking an angry joint in his neck as he tried to plot his next course of action. The guard nodded to the car, flipping the switch to lift the gate. “Afternoon, Lieutenant,” he called through the crackling speaker. </p><p>“How’s it going, Jim?” It was a vaguely familiar voice. Sunny. Chipper. Fast-talking. </p><p>“Been better,” the guard mumbled, casting a withering glare in Gordon's direction. As he did so, the car crept by them. Gordon knew the driver was trying to get a good look at him - the seemingly-suspicious vagrant harassing poor, hard-working Jim. He squinted into the car, trying to do the same to the driver. </p><p><em>“Tracy?”</em> The voice spluttered. Despite the slow speed, the tires squealed a little as the driver slammed on the brakes. The man braced himself against the steering wheel as he lurched forward, but he didn’t seem bothered - he was turned facing out the window, his eyes wide, locked on Gordon. </p><p>Gordon couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he looked back at him.</p><p>“No. No way.” Fisher’s jaw hung ever-so-slightly open as he peered out of the car. He blinked quickly. He shook his head. “Is that really you? <em>Really?</em>”</p><p>“In the flesh.” Gordon grinned back at him. </p><p>“What are you <em> doing </em>here?” Fisher glanced towards the base, like he might see some answer in the distance. His face seemed caught somewhere between shock and delight - brows pulled together, lips twisted into the slightest smile. Gordon heard the guard sigh heavily through the static of the intercom. </p><p>“That’s...kind of a long story.” Gordon turned back over his shoulder, looking at the guard, who was watching the exchange with his heavy glare still in place. “Any chance you could...um..."</p><p>“Yeah! Yes. Yeah." He heard Fisher pop the passenger door open. "I’ll take him, Jim.” </p><p>“Welcome to base,” the guard muttered wearily, gesturing for Gordon to go ahead. Gordon squeezed through the gap, sliding into Fisher’s passenger seat.</p><p>The moment he settled into place, he realized that Fisher was yet another fixture of Marineville that seemed relatively unchanged. The man still talked a mile a minute. He chattered, seemingly without pausing to take a breath, as he drove Gordon down the main road to headquarters. The two of them hadn’t talked for years - certainly not since Gordon’s accident. That was the last time he could remember seeing his friend. </p><p><em>Friend. </em>It was a strange term to him now. A term that didn't quite fit into his life. He hadn't talked to...well, <em>anyone </em>since International Rescue began operating. His life was the organization. His family. The island in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the sea. And even now, he wasn't exactly here to be social. </p><p>Fisher, of course, had no idea. He smiled, casting a sidelong glance at Gordon. “It’s funny, but I was just talking with Roberts - you remember Roberts? I was just talking with him the other day, when you and Griffiths came up. We were wondering what you got up to. You heard Griffiths took a job at that new branch out of-“</p><p>“Fisher, listen.” He glanced out the window as the tower grew closer. It hadn’t changed a bit, looming over the city with its strange, garish paneling. “I have to ask you a favor. A...pretty big one.”</p><p>“Yeah! Yeah, absolutely.” He eased the car to a stop alongside the curb. “I guess you aren’t just here to catch up, huh?”</p><p>Gordon gave him an apologetic smile. “If only.” He reached into his bag, pulling out a folder full of images Brains had taken of the canister. “Take a look at this for me." </p><p>Fisher left the car idling as he flipped through the photos once. Then twice. The man had never had a poker face, and even now, Gordon felt certain he could read every last thought as he flitted between emotions. He looked confused. Uncertain. Uneasy. Back to confused, where he seemingly lingered as he reexamined the carvings on the inside of the canister.</p><p>“Is that…” Fisher squinted down at it. His lips twisted into a thoughtful, troubled frown. “Is that Aquaphibian?”</p><p>“I think it is." Gordon leaned back against the headrest, fighting the urge to close his eyes. He could only imagine the barrage of questions he'd be facing down - if not from Fisher, then from the others. His thoughts flickered through a messy tangle of half-woven excuses.  </p><p>“What are you <em>doing</em> with it?” Fisher asked at last.</p><p>Gordon let out a heavy breath, staring up at the roof of the car. “I...don’t know if I can tell you that yet.”</p><p>He heard the leather seat squeak as Fisher turned to face him. Earnest, dedicated, sincere Lieutenant Fisher, who probably never hid a thing in his life. </p><p>“It’s complicated,” Gordon went on, while his old friend stayed silent. “Too big of a story to tell you here. But my family’s in danger. Whatever was in this, they were exposed to it. And we don’t know how to help them."</p><p>He turned back to Fisher, who watched him closely, carefully, concern etched on his features. </p><p>“Are they bad off?” Fisher asked, glancing back down at the pictures. </p><p>Gordon nodded. “I came here because I need to talk to someone. Someone who can help. Anybody. It’s…” He stopped, letting out a heavy breath, remembering Tin-Tin’s eyes in the dark hangar. “It’s desperate.”</p><p>Fisher flipped through the pages again. He ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, looking like he was grappling with a particularly heavy thought. Gordon braced himself for the impending rejection...it was too suspicious, he was too far outside their circle, they'd take the information but as for his family, he was on his own...</p><p>“Shore’s still kicking,” Fisher muttered, closing the folder. “He’s the one you’ll want to talk to. And he’ll want to know about this, especially if civilians are affected.”</p><p>Gordon felt like the whole of his body loosen. A too-tight spring uncoiling. “Can you get me in with him? Just five minutes?"</p><p>“Probably not.” Fisher shook his head, handing the pictures back. “But you know who can.”</p><hr/><p>He’d almost -<em> almost - </em>missed the drinks at Blue Lagoon. </p><p>They weren’t as nice as the ones at home, of course. Kyrano had a knack for unusual cocktails - one that probably couldn’t be beaten. But there was a comforting sense of familiarity in drinking low-shelf liquor, tucked away in a bar that was as cozy as a broom closet. The Manhattan tasted just the way he remembered, with awful vermouth that had always been a little too sweet, coating his tongue as he took another cloying sip. </p><p>It was nostalgic, yes, but it sat wrong in his stomach. He'd barely touched it since he ordered it. Instead, he glanced down at his watch. Fisher said shifts had changed over ten minutes ago. The sky was dark now, and he was getting antsy. He drummed his fingers against the side of his glass. He watched a drop of condensation roll down the side of Fisher’s drink, puddling in a ring on the top of the bar. </p><p>"You sure they’re coming?” Gordon asked him again. He'd lost track of just how many times. He squinted out the window. The sidewalk was frustratingly empty. </p><p>Fisher nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. They'll be here for this. Even if Titan hasn’t made a move for a while, we’re still collecting intel. They'll want to know what you've got." </p><p>That particular piece of info had settled uneasily with Gordon. As uneasily as the bad booze. According to Fisher, Titanica had been abandoned for nearly a year now, after a retaliatory strike had crippled most of its defense systems. Titan himself had all but disappeared into unknown parts of the sea, and nothing - Marineville, Pacifica or otherwise - had been so much as threatened for months.</p><p>But their old enemy was still very much alive, as far as they knew. That fact, combined with a prolonged, unusual silence, couldn't be a good sign. </p><p>“Here we go. Coming in now.” Fisher sat up straighter, turning towards the entrance.</p><p>As always, Gordon heard Troy Tempest before he saw him. His voice was as strident as ever, carrying easily through the little bar. He shouldered his way past a couple blocking the entrance, talking quickly, gesturing animatedly.</p><p>“I <em> told </em> them to check the drain tank," he said emphatically, twisting to look behind him. "I told them. <em> You </em>told them. Didn’t we tell them?”</p><p>Phones trailed along just behind his shoulder. He muttered a reply Gordon couldn’t hear. </p><p>“Like we don’t know when something’s wrong!” Troy shook his head, stopping to glance around. He tipped his chin in a quick greeting at someone seated near the door. “Feels like the damn bottom's about to fall out, and they try to say it's just-“</p><p>“Guys!” Fisher waved his hand, his own chirping voice nearly drowning out Troy's. “Over here!”</p><p>Troy scanned the bar in a quick search, nodding when his eyes landed on Fisher. As the duo made their way over, weaving between tables, Gordon began to feel like he’d swallowed a particularly large rock.</p><p>Troy and Phones were fine. They’d always been fine. Decent. Friendly. But he couldn’t help imagining it was like a high school reunion, suddenly seeing people he never expected to see again. Wondering how, exactly, he was supposed to talk to a person who’d felt like fierce competition for so many years. </p><p><em>One-sided competition, </em>he reminded himself, as Troy’s face split into a blinding grin. He stuck out his arm, grabbing Gordon’s hand and giving it a particularly firm shake. </p><p>“Tracy!" He was all gleaming teeth and brilliant blue eyes, as infectious as ever. Gordon felt his own smile creeping into place. "Wow, look at you. How long has it been?”</p><p>“A while.” Gordon rubbed at the back of his neck. Phones, for his part, was much more subdued - he only nodded at Gordon as he settled onto one of the barstools. </p><p>“Fisher said you’re here on business.” Troy cocked one eyebrow as he took his own seat, looking first at the lieutenant, then down at the folder in front of Gordon. “Business that involves us, somehow?”</p><p>“It does.” Gordon let out a slow, heavy sigh, wondering exactly where to begin.  It was, at best, a very questionable situation - an ex-aquanaut arriving after years away from WASP, clutching photos of a weapon that would be marked as highly-classified the moment HQ got their hands on it. As far as they all knew, Gordon Tracy was just a civilian now. A civilian who shouldn't have access to anything like this...and who shouldn't have the equipment or knowledge to study it as thoroughly as Brains had done. </p><p>There was no good explanation for any of it, he realized, as he pushed the folder towards Troy. So a bad one would have to do.</p><p>“It started with this.” He watched as Troy’s easy smile slipped away, his eyes scanning the photos. “My brothers found it...somehow. Washed up on shore, maybe. They didn’t think anything about it, and both came in direct contact. There must have been enough chemical residue left in it to cause a reaction.”</p><p>Troy glanced up as passed the photos to Phones. “What kind of reaction?”</p><p>“It's got the same effects as whatever Titan was using back before I left. A kind of synthesized neurotoxin. My brothers...they're both…” He stopped, tearing his eyes away from Troy’s, trying not to think of the tube down Virgil’s throat, or the pallor of Alan’s skin, or the steady, endless, <em> awful </em> hum of the medical equipment that kept them tethered to life by the barest thread.</p><p>“They’re both in a bad way,” Gordon finished weakly, looking down at the top of the bar. It was worn and dented, stained with years worth of old water rings. “Nobody knows what to do about it. This is the only place I could think of that might have the resources to help them out.”</p><p>Troy leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. His face fell into a heavy scowl, but he nodded once, apparently satisfied. Gordon almost breathed a sigh of relief.</p><p> Almost.</p><p>Phones was very quiet. He stared down at the photos, an inscrutable, passive expression on his face. “You say they just...found this.”</p><p><em>In a manner of speaking, </em>Gordon thought. But he nodded. He cleared his throat in what he hoped was a very casual way. </p><p>Troy turned to Phones, arching an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”</p><p>“Well...not necessarily.” He shrugged. “But it sure has got a lot of fatigue markings for something that just <em> washed up.”  </em></p><p>Troy leaned in closer. “Huh. You’re right.” His scowl grew a little heavier. Never a good sign. “How deep do you guess it would have been?”</p><p>“Deep.” Phones looked up, locking eyes with Gordon. “Too deep to end up on shore without any help, I’d say.”</p><p>The knot in Gordon’s stomach tightened. He could only stretch the truth so far before it became too limp to hold itself up. “Well...technically they found it while we were...diving."</p><p>“Diving,” Phones echoed, clearly unimpressed. Gordon knew he was turning the numbers over and over, trying to imagine what sort of dive would put them in the vicinity of something like this.</p><p>“As...part of an operation," Gordon added weakly. </p><p>“An operation?” Troy raised his eyebrows. “In the Pacific Ocean?”</p><p>Gordon let out a breath that was pressed so thin by the pressure in his chest, it might as well have been a wheeze. He hadn’t wanted them to find out <em>anything </em>about his family, his job...but maybe it was easier this way. And if the current circumstances didn’t qualify as <em>need-to-know, </em>he wasn’t sure if anything ever would.</p><p>“You’ve heard of International Rescue?” he finally asked, keeping his voice very low. Low enough that he hoped it would be swallowed by the murmuring conversations and the clinking glassware all around them.  </p><p>Troy tilted his head, nodding a little. “Well, sure we have. Why’s that?”</p><p>Gordon shifted uneasily. The chair creaked beneath him. “It’s...a little hard to explain...”</p><p>Phones looked down at the images of the canister, then back to Gordon, before cracking a smile. He shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. “Should have led with that, Tracy,” he muttered.</p><p>“Led with what?” Troy frowned.</p><p>Gordon rubbed a hand over his face. “We try our best to keep it all confidential. People knowing who we are...it would complicate things.”</p><p>"Oh, sure, I get it.” Phones waved dismissively. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”</p><p>Troy’s glare was a little sharper as he looked at his partner. “You get <em> what?”  </em></p><p>Fisher’s eyes were wide with disbelief as he stared at Gordon. He looked like he’d suddenly spotted a celebrity milling around on the street corner. “So...the MSP? Or those explosions in the Atlantic? You were the one piloting?”</p><p>Gordon hesitated. He bit the inside of his cheek. Against every instinct, he nodded twice, very slowly. </p><p>Fisher let out a low, appreciative whistle. “People on base talked about those for weeks after they happened. You sure pull some stunts out there.”</p><p>Troy, for his part, reeled back, bracing himself with both hands on the bar. “Hang on. <em>Hang on. </em>You’re part of International Rescue?” </p><p>“Take your time with it.” Phones gave him an appreciative pat on the shoulder. Troy glowered, turning towards him.</p><p>“This isn’t exactly the kind of news you get every day,” he snapped. He looked back at Gordon, sharp blue eyes scanning him up and down, like he was searching for loose threads in the story. His jaw worked in a tight circle. </p><p>“They do have a hell of an aquanaut on their team,” he muttered eventually. He crossed his arms, still regarding Gordon cooly, carefully, but after a moment, his jaw loosened ever so slightly. Gordon held his gaze. He’d never imagined he’d be on the receiving end of a compliment from Troy Tempest. Under any other circumstances, he might have pinched himself, checking to make sure he was still fully awake. </p><p>But not now. Not when the situation looming back at home felt so sharply, terribly real. </p><p>Troy shook his head - in disbelief, or confusion, or something else, Gordon wasn’t sure. He leaned forward, arms still crossed, drumming a finger against his elbow. “So your brothers. They found this on a mission for International Rescue?” </p><p>“There were some archeologists diving in the South Pacific. They’d managed to find some underwater ruins. Some kind of city. We got the call that they were trapped there. This was one of the artifacts they picked up.” Gordon waved a hand back towards the images.</p><p>“Any idea what kind of ruins?” Phones asked.</p><p>Gordon shook his head. “Nothing I recognized. I can give you the coordinates, but it looks like it’s been abandoned for years. I was surprised the whole thing hadn’t given out yet.”</p><p>Troy nodded. “So you’ve got two confirmed individuals exposed. Anyone else?”</p><p>“No. Whatever it is, the compound’s broken down too much for aerosol transfer. But our engineer sealed it up just in case.” Gordon couldn’t help but bounce his leg as he talked. <em> Talking </em> wasn’t what he came here to do. Every second that passed without an answer felt like one second too many. But he knew this was part of it - convincing them, or someone, <em>anyone, </em>to help.</p><p>He reminded himself, again and again, that Virgil and Alan were stable. He had time. A little bit of time. </p><p><em>Stable. </em> He hated the word right now. It made it all sound so normal. <em> Stable </em>was Alan laughing when he shouldn't, making a jab at one of Scott’s mustard-yellow sweaters. <em> Stable </em>was Virgil scolding him from the piano bench while he frowned over a new sheet of music, probably wishing they'd all leave the room. </p><p><em>Stable </em>wasn’t the two of them clinging to a cliff’s edge by the tips of their fingers. </p><p>He assumed their condition hadn’t changed. He’d left his watch behind, deliberately placing it on his nightstand for everyone to find. He hoped that hadn’t been a mistake. But Tin-Tin knew how to reach him if she needed to, and if they’d taken a sudden turn for the worse, she’d surely call...</p><p>“Troy.” Phones’s voice was low, but it cut through Gordon’s thoughts. He tapped one of the close-ups of the engravings. “You see this?”</p><p>Troy leaned in closer. He made a low noise. “You recognize it?”</p><p>He shook his head. “Not one bit. That's what I don't like." </p><p>Troy nodded. He cocked his head a little, peering down at it from a different angle. “Old code, maybe?”</p><p>“Could be.” Phones narrowed his eyes. “Might be worth checking what they've got in those early records, if we could get our hands on them…”</p><p>“Well...you know who’d have all that.” Troy leaned back again, eying his partner. Phones clicked his tongue once, nodding. </p><p>Gordon watched them both carefully. Even in his earliest days with WASP, he'd been fascinated by the way they worked together. They were like two mismatched gears that still managed to turn smoothly, one unlikely cog clicking into place after the other. It seemed they hardly had to talk at all to understand one another...but to the rest of the world, their conversations might as well have been a jumble of puzzle pieces. </p><p>“Seems like a shame to ruin her leave,” Phones muttered, scratching at his chin. </p><p>“It’s not like it’s the first time.” Troy grinned. “And she doesn’t have to get in on the action.”</p><p>“Yeah. You try telling her that.” Phones pushed away from the bar. “So that’s our plan, then?”</p><p>“That’s our plan, then."</p><p>“Um.” Gordon rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “<em>What’s </em> the plan?”</p><p>Troy slid the photos back towards him. “It's Aquaphibian, but it's not like anything we’ve seen recently, as far as we can tell. If there’s any chance it’s still part of Titan’s arsenal, we want to learn as much about it as we can...so we've got to check elsewhere, especially if we're looking for an antidote." </p><p>“I can dig through some of the older files,” Fisher offered.</p><p>Troy shook his head. “Pacifica’s got a fuller catalog than we do. And better translators, if we can’t find a match for this. I say we take it straight there and see what we come up with.”</p><p>Fisher nodded, turning to Gordon. “How’s that?”</p><p>“It’s fine with me.” He frowned up at the clock. “How long does it take to get there?”</p><p>“We can make it in about two hours,” Troy said. “I’ve got to run it all by the commander first, of course.” He hesitated, looking Gordon up and down. “He’ll be...a little more pliable if he knows it’s International Rescue business. If you don't mind." </p><p>Gordon sighed, hoping Troy was right. If he had to spill the secret to everyone, he’d at least do it with his fingers crossed, praying it got him one step closer to the answers he needed. “If you think it'll help, do whatever you need to do." </p><p>“I know it'll help.” Troy flashed a smile Gordon had seen countless times before. One that hovered just on the edge of cocky. </p><p>He’d never quite been able to shake the bitterness he felt about Troy Tempest. About the man who could seemingly snap his fingers and have all of Marineville scrambling to do whatever he asked. But for once, it seemed that Gordon might benefit from that unusual talent. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. drawing circles in the water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>One year earlier.</strong> </em>
</p><p>Troy Tempest made his decision on a balmy summer night.</p><p>He’d made it long before that, Marina was sure, but he hadn’t given it words. And without words, she’d spent months in a strange, shapeless in-between; a place where she had her friends, her job, her purpose, and none of it was too complicated. None of it left her asking questions.</p><p>But that changed in the living room of Troy's apartment, on what would have been a normal weekend night. Marina sat on his couch next to Fisher, and she watched Atlanta's lovely face split into a blinding grin when she said they had an announcement. </p><p>She watched Troy flash a strange, faltering smile. </p><p>She watched Phones shift ever-so-slightly in his chair, and raise his hand like he meant to do something with it, and lower it again. </p><p>Atlanta spoke, and the words felt like the edge of a knife. </p><p>"We’re getting married," she said, with a smile that was wide and pearl-white. Her face was blistering bright. Her eyes sparkled as the room flickered to life with laughter and congratulations.</p><p>Atlanta was radiant. Glowing. </p><p>And she was, apparently, a little worried.</p><p>She glanced at Marina again and again. There was a kind of hesitancy as she spoke, and her hands fluttered strangely, like she wanted to reach out to Marina, like she wanted to take her hand and pat it and assure her that things would be alright. </p><p><em>They shouldn’t be worried, </em> Marina thought, even if her throat felt like it was closing up, even if her skin felt tight and numb and her bones felt brittle. <em> They should be happy.</em></p><p>So Marina smiled. It was like a layer of paste on her lips. </p><p>She clasped her hands together. She leaned in to look at the ring on Atlanta’s finger - a bizarre human tradition, but it was very pretty, set with a simple, sparkling diamond. She nodded eagerly as Atlanta told them the story. A nice dinner. A walk through the park, stopping beside the fountain. A thousand perfect, glistening stars overhead. Every last word Troy had said, every movement he’d made, every little detail falling into place like it was meant to be. </p><p>She watched as the group lost themselves in the excited chatter. There were endless questions, and toasts made with glasses that sounded like polished chimes, and Shore’s heavy feigned sighs as he muttered about not being ready for this at all. </p><p>For Marina’s part, she drifted on the edges of the moment, safely forgotten - forgotten except for Phones, who watched her carefully, measuring her every reaction to the group.</p><p>She couldn’t meet his gaze. Out of all of them, he knew. He knew her smile was stretched too thin, he knew she was sitting a little too stiffly. And he knew exactly why. She swore, sometimes, that he could see every part of what she was thinking, like her skin might as well have been made of glass, and inside she was nothing but a wide blank sky, and each thought and feeling was a white wisp of a cloud drifting by. </p><p>"You want to get some air?" he finally asked, after the others had bunched together across the room, searching for a disc to play. </p><p>She shook her head. </p><p>He looked at her. He turned back towards Troy and Atlanta and Shore and Fisher, towards their loud, easy laughter and bubbling conversation. He frowned.</p><p>"Didn’t really mean to make it sound like a choice," he muttered. He snatched a bottle off the table, nodding towards the door. "Come on."</p><p>She followed him out onto the balcony. The night air was thick and heavy and humid, and it pressed itself against her skin like water. She closed her eyes. The apartment behind them was terribly bright. Shore said something she couldn’t quite understand, his voice raised, his words running together. Music drifted out through the open window. </p><p>She was suddenly very tired. It was all so <em>much. </em>She closed her eyes, breathing in the damp air, relishing the weight of it in her sluggish lungs. </p><p>"So...that’s some news, huh?" Phones asked, a little hesitant. </p><p><em>Some news. </em>She nodded. She watched a palm tree sway in the light wind, and she listened to the fronds rustle as he shifted beside her. He lifted the bottle to his lips, tilting his head back. He swallowed, leaning forward on the railing. He sighed. </p><p>He didn’t know what to say. She could feel that much. She started to turn, to find a way to tell him that it was fine, she didn’t need anything, she would just go home - but before she could, he tipped the bottle towards her. </p><p>"Want any?" he asked. </p><p>She took the bottle, watching the dark amber liquid slosh around. She sniffed it gingerly, wincing a little at the smell. </p><p>"Yeah. Not the best he’s got." He held out his hand for it. But she shook her head, raising the bottle to her lips, taking a generous swallow. She flinched at the sting of it, the way it burned a bitter trail down her throat. </p><p>"Easy now." He laughed, warm and low, and leaned against the railing. "You might wanna go slow with that tonight."</p><p><em>She didn’t, </em> she thought, but she passed the bottle back to him. She didn’t want to go slowly. She didn’t want to feel, to think, to <em>be </em>here right now. </p><p>But she <em>was</em> here. </p><p>And Troy Tempest loved Atlanta Shore. </p><p>And Troy Tempest was marrying Atlanta Shore. </p><p>And Marina of Pacifica, the girl from the ocean, the Traitress of the Sea, was left standing on a balcony with a mouthful of something that tasted like burnt wood, like old ash on her tongue, like bitter, awful loneliness.</p><p>"You know...I get it," Phones said, and his voice was very soft.</p><p>She cocked her head, looking at him curiously. He stared out over the dimly lit sidewalk, across the empty street. He was very quiet, lost in some secret tangle of thoughts, a thicket of vines and thorns and things she couldn’t begin to cut her way through. Things he held close to his chest, and rarely loosened his grip on.</p><p>"I really do," he said, after a moment. He tapped a finger against the bottle of liquor, and he nodded. "You get kicked down again and again. You’re just trying to keep your head above water. Just wondering when you can breathe again. Then you see them…" He trailed off, still tapping the side of the bottle. The glass sounded like a sparkling bell in the quiet night air. A moth fluttered by, swirling through the glow of the porchlight. </p><p>His shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath as he went on. "Troy and Atlanta…they’ve got something that looks like a one-in-a-million shot. Fairytale stuff."</p><p>She looked down at her hands. <em> Fairytale stuff </em>was right. Their romance was like a little snippet plucked from the pages of an old storybook. </p><p>A book where she was a character passing through the background. </p><p>"You gotta wonder, after everything you’ve put up with, if you’re even meant to be happy at all." He waved back towards Troy’s apartment. "That kind of happy. Feels next to impossible, sometimes."</p><p>She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. It seemed, sometimes, that all she did was cry - she cried until she was a dried-out husk, until there was nothing else left inside her. She blinked quickly, tilting her face back towards the sky, swallowing a tight knot of messy emotions.</p><p>"And hell, maybe it <em>is </em>impossible. Maybe some of us are just here to drift by." She felt him turn towards her. Felt his eyes searching her face, even in the dim yellow light. "But you...you aren’t here to drift. You didn’t come all that way for nothing."</p><p>She closed her eyes. She tightened her grip on the rail. <em> He was right, </em> she told herself, over and over again, willing it to be true. <em> He was right.  </em></p><p>"It’s gonna hurt," he added, very softly. "Watching them."</p><p>It already did. She didn’t know how to tell him the way it hurt. It hurt as much as little stinging nettles in her skin. It hurt like the world was ice cold and burning hot all at once, like the center of things had fallen out from under her and there was nothing below but craggy rocks to break her fall.</p><p>But there was closure in the hurting. An answer for her. </p><p>
  <em>He was right.</em>
</p><p>"But you gotta remember things’ll change." He took another swig from the bottle. "Even if the world seems tilted right now, it’s not gonna stop spinning for you. You just gotta trust that it’s taking you to the right place."</p><p>It had brought her this far. She stared down at her hands again, eerily pale in the lamplight. She couldn’t imagine what might be beyond this place - but three years ago, she could never have imagined being <em>here. </em>Standing on a balcony, looking out over a paved street, warm air on her face, liquor on her tongue. Brushing shoulders with a human who’d barely understood her when they’d first met, and who now knew her well enough now to talk her through the sting of heartbreak. </p><p>"Hey. You mind making me your plus one?" he asked, jostling her out of her thoughts. She turned to look at him, catching a ghost of a smile. He shrugged a little. "Probably won’t get an invite otherwise."</p><p>She nodded, fighting back her own smile. </p><p>A smile that only stung a little, right around the edges. </p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>Present.</strong> </em>
</p><p>Stingray was like a work of art. It moved beautifully, cutting through the water like nothing Gordon had ever experienced before. He stood just behind the pilot's seat, watching the undersea world rush by through the thick pane of glass, blurring together in shades of blue and green and ghostly silver. </p><p>He felt a little like a child in a museum - a museum where the hushed voices were replaced by the dull hum of machinery, and the paintings and sculptures were the monitors and controls of a craft he’d never dreamed he’d be this close to. </p><p>"Should be there in just under two hours." Troy glanced at the instrument display, then leaned back in his chair, thoroughly nonchalant. "Make yourself comfortable."</p><p>Gordon nodded, turning his attention towards the window again. His work with International Rescue had landed him in his fair share of unbelievable situations. He felt, at times, like he’d been everywhere twice over. Like the world was as small as a marble, painted with mottled shades of blue and white, simple enough to tuck in his pocket. </p><p>The sea was always different. Wild and raw and endlessly breathtaking. And it had been a while - a <em>long</em> while - since he’d been able to sit back and truly watch the world unfolding beneath the waves. </p><p>Stingray’s interior was bright and crisp, and instruments chirped all around them in a cheerful, incessant little symphony. The engines radiated up through the floor in a low rumble. He hardly noticed the slight adjustments the vessel made as it swept along the seabed, and it was difficult not to relax, not to lose himself in the swirl of shapes and colors flitting by the windows.</p><p>He would have happily relaxed into the moment if it weren’t for the sense of a ticking clock hovering just over his shoulder. Every second spent here was one more grain of sand lost through the metaphorical hourglass, and he wasn’t sure just how many of those his brothers could spare.</p><p>He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, focusing on the slight rocking of the submersible. It was barely perceptible, but still soothing, like being back in his own bird. </p><p>He remembered the day they’d announced that they’d be moving from the Stingray prototype to a fully operational vessel. He remembered the exact <em>moment, </em> sitting in the stuffy WASP conference room, already tired and bitter. </p><p>Gordon had only been twenty at the time, just shy of two years of service. He’d drifted through basic aquanaut training, and he’d spent a handful of scattered hours plucking away at academy courses, searching for a concentration that made him feel halfway useful. That had been the grand sum of his career. </p><p>Troy had been twenty-five. Already a captain. Already taking command of his own vessel and crew. His face had been unreadable as they’d announced his promotion - jaw set firm, eyes cool and serious - and all the while, Gordon had watched, wondering how a person could ever be so <em>certain </em>of themselves. </p><p>Troy had everything the poster child of WASP ought to have: a sure, steady hand, and a solemn nod, and a shining suit of armor without so much as a single dent. It seemed like he hadn’t even flinched at the thought of following Captain Holden’s formidable shadow onto the bridge of Stingray...at least not until Gordon passed him in the hall after the meeting, where he heard Troy exhale heavily, shakily, almost <em>nervously, </em>while Phones offered something halfway between congratulations and condolences for the promotion. </p><p>Before that moment, Gordon hadn’t imagined him harboring so much as a single shred of doubt. But then there was plenty he hadn’t imagined about the captain. He certainly hadn’t imagined him <em>humming... </em>but that had changed just a few seconds ago, when he started on a sunny, pleasantly idle tune, drumming his fingers against Stingray’s wheel.</p><p>His gold wedding band flashed in the bright lights. </p><p>That was another strange little contradiction. The man who’d seemed married to his job had finally married someone else. </p><p>"So when did you two finally make it official?" Gordon asked. He watched as Troy flexed his hand and the ring glinted. </p><p>"Just over four months now." Troy smiled his carefully measured smile - still tightly controlled, but surprisingly warm. </p><p>"She’s doing alright?" As he spoke, Gordon strolled towards the back of the craft, settling onto one of the heavily cushioned couches.  </p><p>"Oh, you know Atlanta." Troy waved over his shoulder. "The entire city could go up in flames and she’d be the same as always."</p><p>His voice softened a little when he talked about her. Gordon wouldn’t have expected Atlanta Shore to be the one who could soften any part of Troy's slick, carefully polished exterior, much less to capture his attention at all. He remembered her as a practical girl. One who was level-headed, who had nerves of steel, and a withering glare, and a no-nonsense tone that bit like an icy wind. She was smart and sharp and had inherited more than a little bit of her father’s prickliness - though she had more tact than the commander, from what Gordon had seen. </p><p>Maybe she balanced Troy. Cooled him off. Anchored him to some part of reality that he otherwise seemed to scramble to climb above. Whatever she did, Troy's slight smile spoke volumes. </p><p>Gordon sat back, glancing around the lounge. It was surprisingly homey, with plush seats and soft pillows, and plenty of magazines. A half-finished game of chess sat on the table. He grinned a little as he looked it over. It had been a solo game, he was sure. Likely someone killing time on patrols.</p><p>It looked like they’d been playing through a simple Danish gambit. He hadn’t seen one of those in a while. Quick, aggressive, and paired with a black side that didn’t seem too terribly concerned with defense. Whoever the mystery player was, they weren’t worried about intricacies this time around.  </p><p>They'd left a book on the table beside the board. It was well-read, its heavily dog-eared pages soft and worn. He picked it up, glancing at the title. <em> Karpov’s Strategic Wins.  </em></p><p>He raised an eyebrow, looking up at Troy and Phones. He couldn’t see either of them hunched over the board, much less curled up with dusty guides written by chessmasters of the past, pouring over the finer details of the game. They were both clever enough, sure - but patient enough was a different story. </p><p>It was Marina then, maybe. The third arm of their crew, who he’d soon be meeting face-to-face for the first time. Fisher had mentioned playing against her once or twice before...and losing horribly in the process. </p><p>While the human members of Stingray’s crew had often been aloof, she’d been an absolute mystery. She’d silently hovered in Troy’s shadow for all the time Gordon had known her, not revealing so much as a hint of her face...or anything else, for that matter. </p><p>But she played chess. He knew that much. She sat on the cushions in the back of Stingray, and used old gambits, and flipped through page after page of the same classic book, studying strategies until she’d committed them to memory. </p><p>It was a nice thought. A little comforting, even. And with the unexpected welcome he'd gotten from the rest of the crew, maybe it was safe to assume Marina wasn't quite as enigmatic as he'd built her up to be.</p><p>Maybe she'd even be willing to help him. </p><hr/><p>
  <em>Stingray approaching.</em>
</p><p>She nearly pinched herself when the guard delivered the message to her father. It was quite late - glancing through the windows angled up towards the surface, the water was dark and murky and the waves moved in the rhythm of nighttime. </p><p>Stingray wouldn’t be out on patrol now. It would have to be some kind of emergency, to bring them here this late. But even so, she couldn’t help basking in the news. It washed over her like warm sunlight. She’d only been back in Pacifica for three days, but it was three days too many. Being here was supposed to be comforting, but so far it made her feel like her skin was crawling, itching, like she was covered in a thin layer of sand she couldn’t quite scrub away. </p><p>Her father greeted the crew in the hall, just as he always did. She stood beside his throne. She didn’t meet his eyes when she felt him glancing at her, likely questioning the relief that rolled off her in waves - she only watched as the great gilded doors opened, and the guards stepped aside to let her friends through. </p><p>Save for a handful of life-or-death moments, she couldn’t remember being happier to see them. </p><p>She watched as Troy led the way, his eyes flickering up to the ceiling, over the ornately carved lamps set with glittering crystal, along the columns made from marble, back down to the intricately carved throne and the splendid view of the city set behind it. She bit back a grin. He always looked like a child whenever he entered the main hall, with wide eyes and a genuine smile tucked in the corner of his lips. Like he could never quite believe he was here. </p><p>Phones trailed behind him, offering her a quick wave when they locked eyes. She raised her hand to return the gesture, rushing forward to greet them, but her steps faltered when she saw a third figure enter through the doors.</p><p>She didn’t recognize him. </p><p>He seemed curious about the hall - a little more impressed than Troy, even - but not utterly disoriented, as though he already knew what he was walking into. He trailed behind her friends very slowly, head craned back as he examined the arched ceilings. He turned back towards the doors, watching as they closed behind the group. He seemed like he couldn’t decide where to look - at the windows, where the dark ocean spilled against the glass, or at the pearlescent floors, or at the scrolls and tapestries hanging on the walls.</p><p>Or at the throne. At her father. At her. </p><p>She cocked her head, eager to hear whatever explanation Troy had. As she looked the stranger up and down, she caught his gaze. </p><p>And when she did, she swore she felt something deep inside her twist itself into a knot.</p><p>Troy started talking. She could hear him apologizing for not calling ahead. She could feel her father’s warm amusement bubbling up at one of his breezy comments. From the corner of her eye, she could see her father gesturing grandly, part of the strange patchwork byplay between the two as they tried to communicate.</p><p>She should have been helping. </p><p>She should have been listening. </p><p>But the thing inside her twisted tighter, and she felt her breath hitch. </p><p><em>Marina? </em>her father asked, gently prodding her back towards the conversation with Troy. </p><p>She didn’t answer.</p><p>She didn’t move.</p><p>She wasn’t entirely sure she could think. </p><p>She only stared at the stranger. He didn’t try to draw attention to himself. He was shorter than Troy and Phones, with gingery hair and amber eyes and high cheekbones. There was nothing special about him. Nothing unique. He shifted nervously, his gaze bouncing from her to her father to the walls to the floor to Troy and back again, unsure of where to land. </p><p>"Marina?" Troy asked, his voice echoing in the silent hall. </p><p>The twisting thing stretched and settled. It brushed against her bones and made her skin feel warm from the inside out. It made the world around her fade away, shrinking smaller and smaller until it could fit on the head of a pin. It made her forget what breathing was.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing special about him. Nothing. </em>
</p><p>Troy said her name again, a little more firmly, a million miles away. She drew air into her burning lungs and tried to think, to move, but she was made of marble, and the twisted thing was in tangles deep inside her, all around her, and it was as heavy as thick vines of kelp, and every time she moved it tightened, and she wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t, even if it was going to drag her under, even if it was going to drown her, even if she could never move again, even if-</p><p>"Hey." The voice was very close to her, and something touched her arm. She jumped. "You alright?"</p><p>She blinked quickly, looking down at the hand, careful and firm on her arm. She looked up, and saw Phones frowning down at her. She blinked again. She nodded, smiling apologetically, and the thing inside her loosened its grip, pulling away and retreating to some shadowy corner.</p><p>Whatever it was, it was still there, even as she dragged herself back to reality. She could feel it, as solid and certain as a rock. A rock that was wonderfully warm from the sun, beautifully smooth from the rushing water. It was strange but comforting, and she didn’t want it to disappear. </p><p>She swallowed the thought, turning her attention to Troy, who looked more than a little worried.</p><p><em>I’m sorry, </em>she told her father, and she waved towards Troy, urging him to go on. She didn’t look at the stranger again - who was quiet and uncertain and maybe even a little sheepish - while Troy spoke. But she could still feel that there was something soft about him. Gentle and easy, and it tugged at her like it was coaxing her out, urging her towards something.</p><p>She pushed it all down as Troy waved him forward. "Gordon, show them the photos."</p><p>The stranger - Gordon - hesitated. He looked at her. He took a halting step forward, and she did as well. </p><p>She knew he couldn’t sense the thing inside her. It was impossible. But he acted just as skittish as she felt. He held the photos out, eyes locked with hers as she moved to take them. He seemed to be holding his breath. The air between them felt as thin and gauzy as a veil, and she swore something unseen had stretched out and touched them both, clutching at them, pulling them towards an unfamiliar center. </p><p>She took the photos from him, careful not to touch his fingertips. </p><p>Troy cleared his throat, waiting. </p><p>She tore her gaze away, taking a deep, steadying breath as she looked over the images - and as quickly as it had settled over her, the strange spell was broken. </p><hr/><p>He’d never truly seen Marina before. </p><p>Or he’d never seen her beyond the smallest of flashes. Strange hair, still hands, the slightest profile of her face. Little stray threads of a person. </p><p>He’d never imagined what she might look like. Never bothered to think about it. But she stood before them now, in the midst of a golden, glittering palace beneath the sea, a thousand miles away from anything he recognized...and for a fraction of a second, the room around him seemed to shudder and freeze.</p><p>The threads wove together. </p><p>She was tall and willowy and pale. She had warm brown eyes that carefully avoided his, and full lips pursed into a worried frown. She tilted her head in a quiet, curious way as she listened to Troy speak, and her hair tumbled over her shoulder. </p><p>"We talked it over with the Commander. He agreed that we’d be better off starting here," Troy was saying. He sounded very far away. "Fisher’s going to dig through our intel, but we doubt it’s anything we can locate…”</p><p>Her hair was the color of seafoam, just like he remembered from the flashes - but seafoam in the morning, he realized. Seafoam as it looked when he first woke up, when he made his way through the dim, sleepy villa, down to the shoreline just before dawn broke. When the sky was pale and grey and the ocean was still, and the sun was waiting to spill over the horizon, to split the sky with shades of rose and lilac and cast streaks of wild, rippling gold across the water...and that would be beautiful, it was always beautiful...but it wasn’t the same as the moment just before. A moment when the world was hushed, holding its breath. <em> Melancholy </em>was the word Virgil had used once, when he’d joined Gordon, sketchbook and pastels in hand. And maybe his brother was right - there was always an ache in the intangible haze that hovered over the waves. Waves that were green-grey and whisper-quiet, and looked like the waterfall of locks spilling over her left shoulder. </p><p>She was strikingly - almost hauntingly - beautiful. </p><p>Her brown doe-eyes flickered over him, and then away again, cautious and uncertain. Her lashes were impossibly long. Something about them made his chest ache. </p><p><em>It didn’t matter. </em>He shook his head to clear it. He swallowed through the thick, dry feeling in his throat. She was lovely and sparkling enough to leave him stumbling, but it didn't matter at all. He'd come here for answers. He was focused on that. </p><p>Troy cleared his throat in a very pointed way, and Gordon realized they must be waiting on him. He shook himself out of his stupor, straightening his shoulders, taking a quick half-step back. When he spoke, his voice felt like sandpaper on his tongue. "Um. Sorry. Did you say something?"</p><p>"Aphony’s taking the photos to the archivists here," he said. Gordon glanced up at the throne, finding it empty. He hadn’t noticed the king leaving.</p><p>Troy went on. "It’s going to take a few hours to get the information. You’re welcome to stay, but we’ve got to get back…”</p><p>"I’m staying," Gordon said, cutting Troy short. Not that he figured he had much to contribute, but he couldn’t stand the thought of waiting around for updates. Not with his brothers’ lives hanging by the thinnest of threads. </p><p>Troy nodded, turning to Phones. “Right. So if that’s settled, we’ll-“</p><p>Then Marina - princess of Pacifica, <em> lovely and sparkling, </em>mythical and mysterious, as seemingly untouchable as bright-shining crystal - smacked Troy twice on the arm, cutting him short. </p><p>“Ow!” He turned back to face her, rubbing at his forearm, his brow furrowed in a firm glare. <em>"What?" </em></p><p>His voice was just on the edge of a snap. But if Marina’s royal sensibilities were offended, she didn’t give any indication. She waved towards Gordon. She frowned, heavy and solemn, shaking her head, motioning out towards the windows and the depths of the sea sprawling beyond them.</p><p>"Yeah...I know." Troy fixed the fabric on his uniform sleeve, sighing a little. "I figured you’d say that."</p><p>"You know what she’s <em>s</em><em>aying</em>?" Gordon glanced around between them, eyes widening. </p><p>Troy nodded. He crossed his arms. "Of course I do."</p><p>Marina arched a delicate eyebrow, looking him over in a very pointed way. He uncrossed his arms, rubbing the back of his neck. "Or...well...in a manner of speaking, anyway. More or less…"</p><p>He looked to Phones, seemingly for backup, but his partner shook his head. "Doesn’t have a clue," he said. </p><p>Marina let out a noise that sounded like a little huff of air. Gordon turned to her at her just in time to see her press her lips into a thin, pale, perfectly serious line, though her eyes were a little brighter. </p><p>Laughing. She laughed. He’d never imagined she’d be able to laugh. He’d never imagined she’d <em> want </em>to. </p><p><em>Smiley </em>was what Fisher had called her all those years ago. Maybe he wasn’t too far off.</p><p>"Look, she’s <em> skeptical </em>about all of this, and I am too." Troy cast a glare between them as he spoke. "The archives here are a start,  but if the clock is ticking...I think she's saying we’d be better off looking around Titanica. Or what’s left of it, anyway."</p><p>Phones let out a sigh Gordon could only describe as long-suffering. "Marina…"</p><p>She shook her head adamantly, her hands suddenly a flurry of signs and intricate gestures Gordon couldn’t begin to interpret. Phones watched her closely, quiet save for the occasional <em>mhm </em> or <em>right.  </em></p><p>"Well?" Troy prompted when she finally stopped, and she lowered her hands to her sides, watching them both expectantly. </p><p>Phones exhaled, slow and heavy. He gave a reluctant shake of his head. "She’s not exactly wrong."</p><p>"And we aren’t exactly in a position to help." Troy turned, staring out the dark windows. "Shore would send out a crew, sure, but I don’t like the idea of anyone poking around those ruins if they aren’t familiar with them."</p><p>Phones nodded in agreement. "Maybe he can shift patrols around a little...free up some time for us to take a look."</p><p>"You <em> really </em> think he’d do that?" Troy raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on. The best we could get out of him is permission for one of us to tag along. And it's too risky."</p><p>"Well." Phones leaned back against one of the marble columns, eyes trailing from Troy to Marina and back again. "You know which of us would be the most help out there."</p><p><em>"No." </em>Troy whipped around, his eyes narrowed, blazing blue. "Absolutely not."</p><p>Phones raised his hands, palms up. "Just pointing it out."</p><p>"Well you can stop <em>pointing it out </em>and start coming up with other ideas," Troy snapped, still glowering. "She’s not going."</p><p>"I’ll manage fine on my own," Gordon offered, his voice tentative. "You’ve already done more than I could have asked for. I just need a craft. And maybe pointing in the right direction."</p><p>"We can point you there, sure." Phones jerked his chin out towards the western expanse of ocean. "But the whole place is one big deathtrap."</p><p>From the corner of his eye, he could see Marina shaking her head in agreement. She gestured to Phones again. </p><p>As she signed to him, Gordon looked away from her, out into the impenetrable water. He didn’t know much about Titanica, no - but it made more sense to leave the scholars to their translations here, and have someone out searching the ruins for any errant clues. If he could find <em>anything </em>out there that put Brains on the right track for an antidote, it would be worth the risk. </p><p>"She’s really got a point, Troy," Phones said, his voice a little softer. "She knows the place better than any of us."</p><p>"Too dangerous," Troy muttered back. "There’s no way we’re letting her do that."</p><p>Phones was silent for a long moment. Gordon shifted uneasily as the man eyed him, slow and careful. Then Phones turned his gaze towards Marina. A strange look passed between them, almost conspiratorial.</p><p>"Well...I guess she’s still on leave, technically," he said, careful and mild, like every word was laced with an easy shrug. </p><p>Troy shot him a piercing look - one so icy, Gordon swore he could feel it sting his own skin. "Whose side are you on?" he muttered, teeth clenched.</p><p>"Nobody’s <em> side." </em>Phones pushed off the pillar, stepping towards Troy. "You know she’s the safest bet to get him in and out. No way around it."</p><p>Troy hesitated. His jaw tightened. He looked altogether displeased, his familiar scowl firmly in place. "Not happening. And anyway, if she’s on leave, we’d never get a craft approved for her."</p><p>Marina's features settled into their own scowl - a little less biting than Troy's, but still clearly unhappy. She tentatively lifted a hand, motioning towards her crewmates, trying to interject. </p><p>"Now, you don’t know that," Phones was saying. "Shore’s taking this just as seriously as-"</p><p>She waved towards him, but his attention was locked on Troy, who scoffed. "Just...walk me through how you want me to say that, exactly. ‘Hey, Commander, we were hoping you might let Marina and this ex-WASP here take a craft out for some unsanctioned recog…’"</p><p>She snapped her fingers at them, frowning as the sound was lost behind the conversation. Her shoulders slumped. She started to move forward, as if to physically insert herself between them, but she stopped when she caught Gordon’s eye. She tilted her head a little.</p><p>A strand of loose hair fell across her throat. He resolutely ignored it. </p><p>She pointed to him. He nodded once, not entirely sure what he was nodding <em>about, </em>but he watched her carefully. She turned, motioning towards one of the windows lining the entryway. He squinted out into the darkness, finding the scattered lights that flickered through the deep waters. In the distance, he saw what looked like a sort of launch bay, similar to the one Stingray was docked at. </p><p>"Oh, hey. Look at that." He took a couple of steps towards the window. He could barely make out the crafts housed in their pens. He’d never seen a Pacifican vessel, but based on the designs they’d found from other underwater civilizations, he imagined the basics were more or less universal. He let out a low <em>hmm, </em>trying to piece together what he could from the vague, shadowy outlines of the machines. "You think they’d let me use one of those?"</p><p>Silence.</p><p>"Oh, right. Sorry." He turned back towards her, flashing her an apologetic smile. She gestured towards the crafts and shook her head slowly. Then she swept her hand down her torso with the slightest flourish, like she was presenting herself.</p><p><em>"Ah. </em> Got it...I think." He grinned, clapping his hands together. "If you tag along, we’d be all clear?"</p><p>She nodded, offering up a more subdued smile to match his. </p><p>"I like it." He turned his attention back to Troy and Phones, both still deep in their discussion. Troy was still all crossed arms and clenched teeth. Phones let out another heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. </p><p>"If you’re worried about her going, then you just gotta say you’re worried about her," he pressed. "Don’t go in circles about the whole thing."</p><p>"Of course I’m <em>worried, </em> " Troy hissed, lowering his voice. "She can’t even <em>talk </em>to him. If something went wrong-"</p><p>"Hey, fellas?" Gordon’s eyes didn’t leave Marina as he interrupted. "I think she says they’ve got a craft here. We might want to look into that." </p><p>She nodded vigorously, eyes widening as she broke into a bright, genuine grin. </p><p>She was <em>smiley, </em>yes. And her smile was radiant. It was like a little beam of sunlight bursting across her features. </p><p>It was like a jolt of electricity up and down his spine, sending his thoughts into a whirring overdrive as he cobbled together the next steps of his mission. He'd come here with no real plan. Nothing but instincts telling him that there might be answers in Marineville. And he'd found <em>something</em>...deadly, fabled ruins looming on the horizon, and a silent girl from the sea willing to tag along as his partner. She'd have to argue her way into coming with him, perhaps, but she didn't seem overly concerned by that prospect. </p><p>It was a start. </p><p>If International Rescue had taught him anything, it was that answers weren't always as clear as he'd like them to be. But they were always <em>there.  </em></p><p>Sometimes they were just quieter than others. </p>
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